


Where Nothing’s Turned to Ash

by Rosage



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, Mentions of Blood, Mutual Pining, Other, Post-Canon, References to canon tragedy, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, The chapter number is a coincidence, brief ensemble appearances - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-12 21:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 36,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: Asra isn’t used to living alone, especially when all should be well. Julian isn’t used to magic, but when Asra invites him on a journey to escape their nightmares, they both have to learn a lot, quickly—before their nightmares catch up.





	1. Sleeping Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first draft of this in October of 2018 and have been fine-tuning it ever since. It contains gratuitous references to canon, including minigame content. There are also references to Mc/Muriel and Portia/Nadia. 
> 
> Thank you to Fayery for letting me use her apprentice, Carrow, and to everyone who has helped and encouraged my writing.
> 
> If you read this fic, then thank you, and I hope you enjoy it!

Faust must be cutting off the blood circulation in Julian’s arm. Even with his gloves covering his sweaty palms, he almost drops the key to the magic shop three times before he fits it into the lock. Some part of him knows he’s breaking in, but it hardly matters over Malak’s shrieks, which blend with the rest of his thoughts.

“Asra?” No reply.

The shop is a bit of a mess, with inventory stacked randomly about, but he can’t tell if that’s unusual. Still calling Asra’s name, he pokes his head into the backroom. No ominous smoke, and no fortune-teller. He takes the stairs two at a time.

Asra is lying in bed, his back toward the door, with only his fluffy hair visible against the pillow. Assuming he’s not breathing, Julian stops breathing, too. He’s not sure how he crosses the room, only that he ends up kneeling at Asra’s side.

He pulls back the covers over Asra’s shoulders and checks for a pulse. Finding one, Julian sags in relief just as Malak careens in, squawking. Asra stirs, and Julian jerks his hand back.

“What the—Ilya?”

“Asra! Thank god. Nadia tried to summon you, and nobody at the palace had seen you, and your parents weren’t home, and the baker—”

“Woah, slow down. Nadi needs me?”

“No, not anymore, the peacock wrangler took care of it. So I thought you’d just skipped town, but then Faust came and did something to Malak, and he started screaming and led me here—”

“I said slow down! Faust?” She slithers up his torso, her top half lifting to wiggle in the air over his face. He strokes her chin and murmurs to her. “I’m fine, Faust. Sorry I worried you.” Julian has the strangest sense he should look away. “When did Nadi call for me?”

Julian starts. “Oh, you’re talking to me, not the—that was days ago.”

“What? How long have I been out?”

“Did you pass out? Do you feel feverish, too cold, dizzy?” He peels off a glove to rest a hand on Asra’s forehead, but he can’t feel clearly through his own clammy skin. Why didn’t he think to bring his medical kit?

Asra waves him off. “I’m not sick. I just didn’t wake up for a few days, apparently.”

“ _Days?_ Good god, the only patients I’ve seen do that were on death’s door. I mean, death turned some of them away, but you catch my drift.”

“I told you, I’m not sick.” Asra is beginning to get that look like he caught a foul scent, or maybe a predator got a foot stuck in his burrow. Julian stands, tapping his toes as he steps back.

“Right, well, either way, you can’t have drank or eaten anything. I’ll make you some tea.”

Julian investigates the stove, half afraid it will blow up in his face. He furrows his brow as he tries to remember how to light the blasted thing. A lot has come back to him, but, well, it never took amnesia to give him headaches.

“Ask the salamander,” Asra says with a yawn. For a moment, it doesn’t click; that sounds like something Asra would just _say_. Then he spies the little spotted head in the pile of wood.

“Oh! Of course. Ask the salamander.” He clears his throat. How does one address a salamander, again? Name? Gender? Marital status? “Er, M’Salamander? Would you pretty please light the stove?”

Asra’s soft laugh makes Julian’s face heat as flames spring from the kindling. He wracks his biological knowledge to figure out how the salamander works while he fills a kettle. Malak finally settles on his shoulder, and he croons reassurances to the raven until the tea is finished.

Asra is propped up against the wall when Julian delivers the cup, bowing with an arm behind his back. “Your tea, my magician.” He keeps his eyebrow cocked while Asra rolls his eyes, though Julian waits nervously for a verdict. The soft way that Asra sighs into the steam is as close as he gets.

“Thanks. And, uh, thanks for waking me. I mean, normally I’d ask you not to break in every time you don’t know where I am, but it sounds like Faust sent for you.”

Faust has coiled next to Asra’s hip. She tilts her head toward Julian, her tongue poking out. So he hadn’t been wrong about that. But why send for _him_? Recalling plays where the hero woke someone with a kiss makes Julian feel too silly to ask. Besides, there are more pressing questions on his mind.

“So, er, is passing out for days at a time a thing magicians do?”

“Absolutely. How else are we supposed to commune with dragons?”

“ _Dragons_?”

Asra throws a pillow at Julian, who bats it away.

“I’m serious, Asra! If this is normal for you, you’ll have to fill me in. If not, I’ll have to assume it’s, uh, super worrying.”

Asra studies him. “If I give you a real explanation, will you promise not to overreact?”

“Yes. I just want to understand.”

Softening, Asra pats the bed. Julian sits gingerly on top of the blankets. Now that he’s not in complete panicked doctor mode, it hits him that he has no idea if the rest of Asra is as unclothed as his top half. He’s suddenly sweltering in the coats he hasn’t removed. Asra stretches a toned arm over his head, and Julian looks away with a swallow.

“So, you have some experiences with magical realms, right?” Asra asks. “You’ve been to see the Hanged Man.”

“You could say that.” The memory makes Julian grimace. “Wait, can you visit him, too? Is that why you seemed like you, like you were…”

“No, he’s always been difficult. The point is, there are places that aren’t so hard for me to reach, if I go into a trance.”

“Oh, is that what you were doing?”

Asra worries at his lip. “Kind of. I know I spent time in one. But even spending a long time over there shouldn’t make whole days pass here. And I don’t get into bed like this to trance.”

Julian’s fingers drum on the sheets. He promised not to overreact, but isn’t it a bad sign if not even Asra knows what’s going on? “What were you doing before this?”

Seeming to aim for a sly smile, he beams. “I was with Carrow and Muriel in the woods. They’re doing well. But…” He sobers and stares into his tea. “I thought they deserved some privacy, you know? And someone needed to watch the shop.”

That explains the haphazard shelving. “What happened after you came back?”

“I don’t really remember. At some point, I must’ve just crawled into bed and not gotten up. No reason to, I guess.”

Faust prods Asra’s side. He strokes her with a finger while he drains his cup. When it’s empty, he sets it aside to pet Malak, who has lighted down on his shoulder to nip his hair. For once, Julian is speechless.

“Even lazier than you thought, huh?” Asra says with a dry croak, like he tries and fails to laugh. “Oh, please don’t tell anyone about this! I don’t want to make anyone worry.”

“No offense, but that ship’s kind of sailed, now that you’ve disappeared without a word.”

That seems to distress Asra. “Nobody knows I was here, right? If they ask, you can say I skipped town.”

“I can what? Now, see here. I hate to be a hypocrite, but if it were me, people would be telling me off for lying.”

Asra holds and releases a breath. “Fine. You’re right. I’ll go apologize to Nadi for missing her summons and tell her I was visiting other realms. I just—there’s nothing else to say.”

Julian thinks there’s quite a lot to say, but he’s still keeping his promise not to react. He tries to match Asra’s breathing technique without success.

“Look, like I said, I hate to be a hypocrite. If I could just get into bed and leave myself behind, I would have done it ages ago,” Julian says. Malak hops down and starts pacing the bed in little flaps. “A lot’s happened. I’m not surprised if you—or your body, or your brain, or your, uh, magical plane-hopping spirit—can’t just decide it’s all over and relax. Lord knows I can’t.”

Asra’s gaze follows Malak’s path. “So what do you do about it?”

“I just don’t let myself lie down that long.” Now that Asra’s sat up and drank, Julian’s heart has settled to its normal racing speed. “Listen, I—I’m glad you’re safe. And if you need something to get up for, well, I know all sorts of fun things to do in Vesuvia. And outside it, for that matter.”

“Oh, I can imagine.” For an instant, that old mischief sparkles in Asra’s eyes. “Thanks, Ilya.”

His tone is soft enough to make Julian’s heart lodge in his throat. “Don’t—don’t mention it.” There’s more to say, but he isn’t sure which one of them will run first if he does.

“So, I should probably find food. And clothes.”

Julian leaps up. “Right, you know where to find me if, if you want to.”

“Wait,” Asra says. Julian freezes. “Would you wait for me downstairs? Please?”

“Of course! Of course.”

He catches Asra giving him one more grateful look as he leaves, Malak flapping after him.


	2. Empty Burrow

For several moments, Asra sits, absently scritching Faust. _Up_ , she says. Pretending to misunderstand, he picks her up and nuzzles her with his nose. She prods back. _Asra up._

“Fine.” He shivers as his feet touch the floor, and Faust uncoils long enough to let him pull on clothes.

He drags a hand through his hair, meaning to call it good—nobody’s going to see him besides Ilya, who can hardly complain about someone looking like they just got out of bed. But if he can’t seem collected, Ilya’s going to fuss forever. He allows one final yawn while he waves a hand over himself to cast a neatening spell.

It’s embarrassing, really. When he came home from the forest, he’d been sleepy but content. But before long, Carrow’s magic had called to him from all over the shop, pulling him in every direction. He stood there overwhelmed until, like too much cold water, it left him numb. Then he crawled into bed.

He hadn’t journeyed past his personal gate; that was what made it shocking that he stayed so long. He couldn’t even tell if he was trancing or dreaming. He settled down on his favorite hill to watch the stars shift, not focusing on any one so much as a hazy constellation that drifted apart. When those stars were only in his peripheral vision, he kept looking up at nothing.

Faust slithers over his foot to get his attention. _Food_.

Right. He pokes around their little kitchen—his little kitchen. He wants to cook, but there’s nobody to cook for except Ilya, who’s probably fiddling with magical items in the shop. Asra sighs as he grabs a bag of nuts and berries he picked in the woods, though a smile twitches on his lips.

It twitches again when he descends to find Ilya poking through the pile of stock on the counter. “Find anything interesting?” Asra’s voice makes Ilya jump, comically exaggerated as usual.

“Where in blazes did you get all of this? Some of these herbs and roots are used in medicine, but I usually have to hunt them down through, let’s say, unconventional sellers.”

“A magician never reveals his secrets.” He just picked them in the woods, but he doesn’t need red market merchants crawling through to forage in his and his friends’ spots.

Ilya snorts. “That’s for sure.” It hits Asra how much he revealed while half-asleep, but before he can dwell on embarrassment, Ilya continues. “You, uh, planning to open up a medicine shop?”

“They’re potion ingredients. Among other things.”

Another snort. “Potions. That’s just another way of saying medicine.”

“Medicine can turn your skin purple?”

Ilya drops the pouch in his hand. “This stuff _what_?”

“You’re too easy, Ilya.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that before.” It’s Asra’s turn to snort at Ilya’s waggling eyebrows.

He starts to sort through his haul himself, but it soon turns aimless. He can’t remember where anything is supposed to go or how he’s supposed to price it—or the names of some of their regular clientele.

 _His_ regular clientele. It’s not that he’d ever, ever say Carrow wasn’t welcome. But there’s no way Muriel would run a shop, which means Carrow won’t be running the shop, which means Asra is in charge now, like he promised.

“So, what do magicians do with blackberry leaf? Or is that just for your tea?” Ilya asks.

Startled, Asra looks down at the herb in his hand. “What did I just say about magicians?”

“Pretend I’m a customer, then, who already knows about, er, all things mystical. You must have a sales pitch.” Ilya rest his elbow on the counter and leans in too attentively. Asra looks away, pretending to scan the shelves.

“It’s used for protection.”

“Is that your best pitch?”

Asra resists the urge to rub his temples. He used to ham it up to sell things at the masquerade, true—and he was responsible for sales during that period where Carrow couldn’t speak. But recently, Asra has mostly gathered the stock. “Show me how you’d do it, then.”

“Oh, gladly.” Ilya sniffs a leaf before running his fingers along its edge. He looks at Asra like he’s only just seen him. “Why, hello there! Oh, dear, who is that behind you? Rather, what?” He reaches over Asra’s shoulder as if shooing off a fly. “Nasty day for all things spectral, hm? Fear not, a pouch of this under your pillow should do the trick. Just remember to dye the pillow with the blood of a goat, and—”

Asra’s been trying to look impassive, but he starts to howl with laughter. “That is _not_ how you use anything! And I don’t go around scaring customers!”

“And here I thought the goat blood was such a nice touch. By all means, tell me how it’s done.”

Asra pulls himself together before he can lose it again. He cocks his head in fake thought. “Has your day been rocked by incidents you can’t explain? Nasty goats, rowdy ravens? With this in your life, evil spirits will never break into your home again.”

“Ooh, you’ve convinced me—wait, was that a jab?”

“Who can say.” Asra glances at the lock on the door, which is undone but seems otherwise undisturbed. “How did you get in, by the way?”

Ilya flushes. “Long, ah, funny story about that.” He pulls out a key, holding it outstretched like it might bite him. Asra stares.

“Why do you have that?”

“You gave it to me, remember?” Ilya looks at him for too long, too intensely, and Asra doesn’t manage to hide his face in time.

“Of course I do. I just didn’t know you still had it.”

“Ah, well, I didn’t really have a chance to give it back.” The regret in his voice seeps through Asra’s numbness.

“So you kept it. For three years. While in hiding.” He can’t look away now, trying to absorb whatever that might mean. “I’m surprised you didn’t…” He swallows. “Lose it.”

“Yes, well, I’ve always been…” Ilya’s throat bobs in turn. “Resourceful. Lucky, that is, fortunate that I finally have a chance to return it, hm?”

Shaken out of his stupor, Asra realizes the key’s still outstretched, waiting for him to take it. He senses Faust in the backroom, giving them privacy. She was the one who summoned Ilya, knowing he wouldn’t let propriety stop him from waking Asra up, no matter how into himself Asra retreated.

“I, uh, may have kept a few other things,” Ilya continues. “You gave me that little painted raven.” The pain is clear on his face. Asra reaches for the backs of Ilya’s fingers, curling them around the key before retreating.

“Keep it. I know you’ll find a way in if you really need to, and I’d rather you not get caught in the protections I put on the windows.” His voice softens. “And I’d never make you give back the raven, Ilya. It was a gift for a friend.” He smiles, and is glad to see Ilya’s relief.

Asra’s stomach ruins the moment. As he digs into the food he brought down, Malak returns through a window Ilya must have opened for him. Asra holds out a berry, which Malak doesn’t take, instead landing on the counter and squawking insistently.

Faust reappears. _He says eat_.

“Okay, okay.” Only after several bites does he manage to get Malak to accept a berry.

“Do you have enough to eat around here that’s not for the birds?” Ilya asks.

Yes, if he cooks. “Not really. I was about to head around the corner to the baker. You coming?”

“Oh! If I’m invited, I’d be delighted to. Am I invited?”

“I didn’t ask because you weren’t.” On that note, Asra pulls on his coat and heads out with two birds flapping after him.

* * *

Asra’s used to attracting stares and whispers, used to people sidestepping him; everyone on his street knows the shop went from two magicians to one, and then—inexplicably—back to two. It has one again, but that’s not why people are looking now. It’s Ilya, striding through the market like he does this every day, waving and greeting people. Most of them seem bemused, not used to him around this side of town. Idly Asra wonders if he’s ever going to travel without someone who rose from the dead.

One child shuffles up to ask for an autograph. Kneeling, Ilya whips out writing materials from the folds of his coat and writes something that makes the child giggle. A fond smile finds its way to Asra’s face and stays there.

With some apprehension, the child’s attention turns to him. “Can I touch your snake?”

“If she says it’s all right.” He holds out his arm, and Faust slides down, her head bobbing.

_Small friend!_

“Just pet in the direction of her scales, okay?” Asra says. The child’s hesitation melts into wonder as their chubby little hand pats Faust’s neck. A voice calls out for them, and they run off.

“You two made that child’s day,” Asra says. Faust wiggles proudly.

“Hey, don’t count yourself out.”

“Me? I didn’t do anything. Ooh, I smell bread fresh from the oven.” He follows the aroma, which swirls up memories of breakfast before a day of teaching—re-teaching, rehabilitating. For a second, he forgets.

Immediately, Ilya takes Asra’s usual place on the steps, leaving the chair to Asra. It’s the smallest change in routine, but Asra shifts a while to get comfortable, ending up cross-legged.

The pumpkin bread melts into a cloud of spices on his tongue. He offers a chunk to Faust to sniff. _Mouse bread?_

“There’re probably mice around somewhere,” Asra says. Faust used to keep the stall free of them in exchange for Asra’s meal. She slithers off in search.

The baker chats while he grinds cloves. “Carrow hasn’t come around lately. Rumor has it he was a ghost all along.” He says it like a joke, but the way he inclines his head toward Asra suggests he wants a real answer.

“Oh, sorry, we didn’t tell you. He’s living somewhere else now, that’s all.”

“Apprentice flown the coop, eh? I remember becoming an empty nester.” He rubs his chin, and Asra takes a large bite of food.

“Oh, I know, right? My dog ran away years ago, and I was talking to her bed for weeks," Ilya says. “So, are your kids this good at baking?”

Grateful for the redirection, Asra tilts to watch the sky, clear but for a few wisps he can’t shape. The sun warms him more than the bread, filling as much of a hunger. Its brightness didn’t reach him in the forest or his dreams.

“Where are my manners? I’m Julian.” Out of the corner of Asra’s eye, he sees Ilya shake the baker’s hand, dusting his glove with flour. Something in Asra jolts. What did the baker reply? Asra can’t remember if he ever knew his name, but he doesn’t now, and it would be embarrassing to ask after all this time.

While he’s mulling it over, he spots customers waiting for Ilya and the baker to stop chatting. Asra reaches for his link with Faust, calling for her to get Ilya’s attention. Ilya yelps when she slithers over his boot.

“I’d better get back and open the shop,” Asra says.

“I’ll walk you there.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just down the street.”

Asra’s grip is tense on his bag. He’s afraid that if Ilya walks him home, he’ll invite him back in. He’s afraid of all of his impulses, right now—and afraid that maybe Ilya hasn’t changed as much as he hoped.

“Right. Of course. I’ll uh, see you around, then,” Ilya says.

Asra’s grip loosens. It tightens when Ilya’s cape disappears in the crowd, and again when he turns to navigate it, though they thankfully pay him less mind now. He doesn’t really relax until the shop door swings shut behind him.

With his belly full, it’s tempting to just get back into bed. As a child, he had to take any opportunity to sleep, and he’s safe here. He always has been.

The counter won’t just clear itself. He promised to take care of Carrow’s shop, and he’s definitely capable of it—he doesn’t want Ilya thinking otherwise. Not that he cares what Ilya thinks.  

He puts down his bag and gets to work.


	3. Missing Pieces

It’s just as well that the veranda blocks part of the night sky; even Asra has spent enough time looking at the stars for now, not to mention how dizzying it is that these are fixed in place. The pillows Nadia has called for are old favorites of his, a consideration that touches him. It’s as familiar as her calming lavender scent.

“Is it common for you to spend days traveling those realms? Usually only minutes pass in the real world when I visit my gate—provided I’m not in a coma.” Nadia levels him with a searching gaze. Asra shrugs and sips his wine.

“You know how strange time is over there.”

“Then you planned to stay for so long? I imagine you had quite the journey.”

“Not exactly, but you know I just can’t help my curiosity. It’s nothing to worry about.”

A design flashes on her forehead. After a long moment, she sighs. “You know I shall always respect your privacy. I just wish you, at least, wouldn’t lie to me.”

Her clear disappointment deflates him. She drains her glass, and he scurries to refill it. “I’m sorry, Nadi. I just figured you’d have more important things on your mind.”

“I can decide for myself what’s important, thank you. You are one of my dearest friends, Asra. I know there is much we never shared, but for my part I’ve come to regret it.”

An ache drives him to pat her hand. He’d gotten so used to doing everything alone, something he knows she understands.

“Me, too. What’s on your mind, Nadi?” He gathers up locks of her hair, and she shifts to give him easy access to braid it.

“At the moment, I find myself concerned about my friend locking away his consciousness as I once did.”

Of course he can’t hide something Ilya noticed from Nadia of all people. He tries to explain what happened—the stars, Ilya, the forest—but it spills out in a jumble. The braid comes loose, and he separates it to start again.

“From the beginning, please,” Nadia says gently.

“I’m just not sure where that is. Everything was good when I left the forest, and I thought I was fine when I got back to the shop. And it’s not like anything in particular happened in my gate.”

“You simply lay there, correct? What were you thinking about?”

“I was wondering how Carrow and Muriel were doing. And then I figured the answer must be ‘great.’” He grins when he remembers the way he left them, with Carrow tucked under Muriel’s chin. “And it’s good that I knew. I used to worry so much. But after that, I was just kind of blank. Like there was nothing to fill the space where all the worrying used to go.”

“Nothing? Someone as skilled and curious as you? Why, there are all manner of tasks I could give a magician of your caliber. Your parents are off on one such mission as we speak.”

A pang makes Asra’s fingers fumble. Before he left for the forest, he encouraged them to accept that request, even though they were hesitant to leave him. Truthfully, their constant attempts to reconnect with him—while appreciated—had left him needing space. Nadia would understand, but it’s not what he’s here for. He collects the dropped strands. “You mean, tasks besides royal braider?”

“Portia takes excellent care of my hair, thank you. Are you not still running the shop?”

“Yeah, I just restocked it. It just feels so wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“The last time I lived there without Carrow…” Pressure in his lungs stops him. He manages to keep his hands steady enough to finish the braid. As soon as he’s idle, Nadia passes his glass back to him.

“You are always welcome at the palace, if you would prefer,” she says. He rests his forehead against her shoulder.

“Thanks, Nadi. I really should manage the shop, though.”

“Then I won’t press the matter. Just know nobody will fault you for moving on.”

The phrase loops in his head without conclusion.

Nadia leans away to gesture toward the gardens, startling him. “Portia, you are welcome to join us,” she says.

Portia appears like a star blinking into existence. She hovers at the top of the steps, wringing her hands. “I—I was just working in the gardens, Milady, and wanted to see if you needed something—oh, right, and the procurator wanted to see you. Something about a dessert fiasco?”

“Of course I can’t have an evening of peace. Very well, I shall be there shortly. Asra, will you require a room for the night?”

He declines, and she asks Portia to escort him out, leaving before he can properly thank her. Portia fluffs one of the pillows absently before seeming to remember he’s there.

Their walk down the hall is uneventful, but he doesn’t know her well enough for that to be comfortable. Several times she opens her mouth, only to close it. He feels the same uncertainty.

“Milady was glad to see you,” she says.

“I was glad to see her.” He wishes they’d gotten more time together; he hadn’t meant to spend it all with his moping.

“She must really trust you. She doesn’t let just anyone do her hair. Usually it takes a whole team, unless I’m doing it.”

“Yeah, she told me you’re the best at it.”

“Oh, she did? Oh! Of course she did.” Portia seems more relaxed for the rest of their walk, as if that settled everything she might have had to say.

* * *

Days later, just enough has changed for Asra to feel sillier about his funk. He lets himself cook, even though it’s only for him—lets himself cook his favorite skink dish, even, now that nobody’s around to mind. And running the shop isn’t so hard, with how few customers a magic shop gets. Carrow’s favorite stops by, a man with black and white hair who often picks up crystals for his niece. Struggling to remember the discount Carrow always gave him, Asra settles for throwing in a feathered talisman the man was eyeing.

It’s quiet between customers, but boredom is the least of anyone’s concerns. Loneliness isn’t the least of his, though, and by now he can admit that. Often he turns to speak, only to realize Carrow’s not there. Strong urges grip him to hug his parents, to work and learn with them, or just to sit and drink tea. He tries to guess whether Carrow or Muriel is feeding the chickens, and which noble is giving Nadia a headache, and whose day Ilya is brightening without realizing it.

Daydreaming is one thing, but he’s nervous now about trancing, or even sleeping. Total blankness and nightmares make poor options. Getting into bed by himself is lonely, anyway, without Carrow’s angular shape against the pillows or Muriel keeping watch for threats.

He takes to going on strolls at night, greeting neighborhood cats and letting his mind wander. Sometimes he thinks about dropping in on Ilya, but he can’t be sure where that would lead. Other times he veers toward the city walls, and he imagines continuing past them, letting the stars guide him to some new adventure.

Inevitably he’s pulled toward the docks, where the Lazaret looms as a silhouette in the backdrop, like a patch of sky that’s sucked out even the moonlight.

He always returns home, feeling like he’s missing something.

* * *

After days without seeing a familiar human face, it surprises him when Portia enters the shop, glancing over her shoulder. Once he’s greeted her, he sets down the sweater he was knitting for Faust and waits, worried something happened to Nadia or Ilya. Portia picks up a crystal and twists it to catch the light.

“What can I do for you?” he finally asks.

She keeps spinning the crystal, like she forgot she picked it up. “You tell fortunes here, right?”

He perks up. Readings are more fun than selling ingredients, which is all the business he’s had that day. He ushers her into the backroom, trying not to think about what he’s done in there with her brother. Unlike Ilya, she seems awed by magic, so Asra takes his time lighting some incense and doing card tricks just for flair. Her eyes light up at the theatrics, and he thinks fondly of the resemblance.

Finally he settles across from her. “What would you like to ask the cards today?”

She begins to fidget again. “I just wanna know how things are going to turn out for Nadia—Milady.”

“In what sense?”

“Like, if she’s going to be happy, and safe, and successful.” She straightens. “I mean, she’ll definitely be successful! Just, you know, the other stuff.”

“To be clear, you’re just asking about her? Not your relationship?”

Portia’s face turns red. “Of course!”

“I’m not sure how clear of a reading we’ll get about someone else. Especially compared to her intuition. I can try, but if there’s something you want to ask for yourself, this would be a good time.”

She bites her lip, but she quickly leans forward. “Do I have a chance? At, uh, the thing I want?” She crosses her arms. “The cards know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Why don’t we find out?” He shuffles the deck, stretching the process for her benefit, and isn’t surprised to reveal the Lovers, reversed. Portia stares down at the intertwined snakes.

“Woah,” she breathes. “That looks just like your snake! What’s it mean?”

He can’t resist telepathically sending for Faust to slither in under the table and prod Portia’s foot. It produces the expected exclamation, and Faust surfaces and lifts her head up, swaying.

“They have a warning about your love life,” he says. Mischief aside, he retreats from himself, only repeating the voices that hiss in his heart. “Repressing your feelings hasn’t worked, has it?”

“No,” she whispers. “I’ve tried, but somehow it’s not enough.”

“Actually, the Lovers think you’re trying too hard. Your choices are stifling you. You’ll find your relationships more rewarding if you start taking risks.”

“But how can I?”

The voice filling Asra’s chest goes quiet, leaving him empty until he returns to himself. “That’s all the Lovers have to say for now. You’ll have to figure out the rest on your own.” Faust lowers herself to the ground while he puts away the deck. “I’d be happy to do another reading if something changes.”

She bats at the beaded curtain before seeming to remember herself. “Uh, how much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. I just hope it helped.”

“Ooh, funny way to run a business, but thank you.” She stands with a familiar warm smile. “You’re kind, Asra.”

He doesn’t know how to respond.

After she’s left, he gets out the cards and considers what he told her. All of the readings he’s done lately were for other people. If he’s so lost, there’s an obvious solution.

With a sense of dread, he shuffles the deck and flips over the Hanged Man—reversed.


	4. Dragon’s Breath in the Windowsill

Stubbing his toe and hitting his head on the cupboard haven’t deterred Julian’s pacing route, that being everywhere in Mazelinka’s house where he won’t run into her. She’s at the counter, slicing hard-boiled eggs while Julian rants.

“If I just show up, I’ll be too pushy, and presumptuous, and unwanted probably, but if I don’t and he’s in trouble then how would I know?”

“Didn’t that snake of his have that covered?”

“Of course, of course, she came to me of all people for some reason. I messed up so badly with him in the past and I’m surprised he still considers me a, a friend, and I don’t want to do anything to—”

“For God’s sake, Ilya, you’re going to pace another hiding hole into my floor. He’s a magician. If he needs you, he’ll find you.”

Julian flops into a chair and picks up his quill, which he only taps against the side of the table. He had every intention of asking Mazelinka’s advice on the bits of script in front of him, but—but maybe if he goes to the marketplace near Asra’s place, he can pull the old _I was just in the neighborhood_ , and see if he’s okay.

“Don’t be a creep,” Mazelinka says when he floats this by her. She taps his shoulder with her wooden spoon.  

“Right, right, I—”

“Hold that thought. What has those birds raising such a fuss?”

Fearing an intruder, Julian follows her to the door and freezes. Blinking several times doesn’t change the sight. Asra is crouching in Mazelinka’s yard, surrounded by clucking chickens. One is bundled in his arms like he’s there every day as a personal heater.

“You there, what do you think you’re doing?” Mazelinka asks. Asra straightens, still holding the hen.

“I was just in the neighborhood, and these chickens started talking to me.”

“Did they. Well, I do hope you weren’t planning to run away with that one. She can peck up a storm.”

“Fox in a henhouse, is it?” Julian can’t resist cracking.

“Ilya?” Asra looks at him in surprise, seeming as bashful as when Julian first met him, probably no thanks to Mazelinka brandishing her spoon. “It’s not like that. I just wanted to say hi.” He releases the chicken, who puffs out her feathers and scratches in the dirt. He turns to Julian. “You’re friends with a lot of birds, huh?”

“I’d rather meet a lot of dogs, but what can you do?” Malak swoops down with a squawk of offense and lands on Mazelinka’s far shoulder.

“Speaking of friends, this one’s yours, Ilya?” Mazelina asks. The knowing way she looks at him makes his face heat.

“My, uh—yes, pardon my manners. This is Asra. Asra, Mazelinka.”

“A pleasure. No use standing around, dinner’s almost ready. You’re welcome to join us, Asra.” She heads inside, leaving Asra with a chicken’s beak tugging at his pant leg.

“That’s a rare invite. Trust me, her cooking’s to die for,” Julian says.

“Like that’s saying a lot, coming from you.”

“You wound me,” Julian says with a hand over his heart, but he’s grinning while he ushers Asra inside.

With the surprise of the moment over, nervous energy overtakes Julian. This home—Mazelinka herself—has always been a safe place, his little piece of Nevivon in Vesuvia, a hiding hole and fresh eggs and dragon’s breath in the windowsill. And Asra is standing right there, the fireplace lighting his profile. Julian returns to his chair, his leg thumping, and shuffles his script notes without reading them.

Asra seems to decide his role as guest is to examine every plant, tool, and decoration, and Mazelinka leaves him to it, chopping herbs like nothing has changed. Eventually all that remains are Julian’s pages, which Asra sticks his chin over Julian’s shoulder to look at. “Act One. You’re writing a play?”

“Have been for a while, actually—ah, that is, have intended to for a while. I’m too late to do more than help out backstage, but they’ll be needing new material before long.”

“Creatives,” Mazelinka mutters. “Asra, be a dear and hand me some of that passion flower?”

“It’s a swashbuckling pirate tale, you see,” Julian continues while Asra does so, “full of adventure and romance on the high seas, or it will be, and Mazelinka has all the best pirate stories.”

While it’s true, it was an excuse to come over. He hates to impose now that guards aren’t checking his place, but it’s so empty and cold, and a lull in house calls has him stir-crazy. He should be trying to get his clinic back, not reengaging with the theater, even if it’s been a high point lately.

The others exchange a mysterious look while Asra helps Mazelinka with an herbal mixture. It doesn’t show up with the meal she presents, which would normally consume Julian’s attention, if he weren’t watching for Asra’s reaction. Mostly he wants to show off Mazelinka, but he’s fluttering with nerves, like Asra is about to pass judgment on a piece of his childhood.

He’s probably watching too closely while Asra brings the beet soup to his lips, which part in exclamation after he takes a sip. He smiles at Mazelinka, and Julian’s heart settles. “It’s delicious,” Asra says.

“Good, because you’re having seconds.”

“She means it,” Julian says. It’s good, he thinks. Asra is looking thin. Maybe Julian should have bought him more than bread the other day.

“That goes for you, too,” Mazelinka says. The soup sloshes as he digs in. Halfway through, he gets distracted with pirate stories, treating his spoon as a saber while he recounts a daring escape. Asra is quiet but doesn’t seem unhappy, Julian hopes.

“I’ll wash up,” Mazelinka says when she’s absolutely sure they’ve both eaten enough. “Show your friend out, Ilya.”

Outside, the chickens waddle over to gather around Asra again. He says goodbye to each of them, earning clucks. When Julian tries to cluck back, they ignore him, making Asra laugh.

By now, the evening is chilly on Julian’s chest. He crosses his arms, wishing he’d put on his coats; for years, he barely felt the cold, but too much of his humanity seems to have returned along with his memories.

“So, er, what brought you out here in the first place?” Julian asks.

“The wind,” Asra says. Before Julian can ask again, he continues, “I’ve just been walking more lately.”

_Better than being comatose, I guess_. “Then I suppose you, do you know the way home?”

“Yeah. I can get there fine.”

“Right. Good.” _Leave it, don’t say anything else, don’t tell him you’re worried or_ … “If, if you’re bored sometime, our old—ah, that cozy little teahouse we used to like? It’s a theater now, I’ve been hanging around there. I could get front row seats if you want to see a show.”

_Dammit_. Julian might have found a reason not to say that if he’d considered it. Several reasons, really.

“Sure, sounds fun.”

“It does? I mean, it sure does, I’ll see you at the next one.”

As soon as the door is shut, his smile drops, and he resumes his pacing. “Hypothetically speaking, is asking someone to your old date place a date if it’s no longer your date place? That is, not only are you no longer dating, but the place itself has—”

“Ilya. If you stay much longer, you’ll be sleeping in the hole.”

“Right, I’d hate to impose.” He gathers up his notes and swoops in to give her a kiss on the cheek. “The loveliest lady in Vesuvia deserves her beauty sleep.”

“I deserve my vodka. That’s not what this is, drink it before bed if you want any rest.” She presses a little bottle with the medicinal mixture from earlier into his hand. “And Ilya, the chickens are a good judge of character. Be good to him.”

“Of… Of course.”

If he’s capable of it.


	5. Their Elements

Working at the theater replaced Julian’s past associations with the building: an underground booth where Asra could get cozy, unbothered by crowds or strangers, while Julian told long stories to keep him safe from the palace for a few hours. The theater is its own little world, too, but it’s raucous, all manner of voices and elbows trying to fit together in the land of make believe. Though it’s perfect for Julian, walking there with Asra makes him expect to step into the teahouse, twisting a knife he didn’t know was still there.

“It’s a shame, really,” he murmurs. “I haven’t found anywhere else that serves your favorite tea, or that’s as private.” He searched during his fugitive days, like a smoky drink could bring back the memories he’d lost, or like Asra would join him someday in Drakr or wherever and might want something familiar.

“There’s always the shop. Or the woods.”

“Er, of course, I mean someplace that gets us out in civilization. Anyway, this will be busier than before. But I promise it’ll be worth your while.”

“Oh? I’ll hold you to that.”

“Prepare to be dazzled,” Julian says, holding open the door. His confidence wanes instantly. They aren’t as early as he thought, after their Chihuahua mishap on the way here, not to mention the back ways Julian uses out of habit (looking over his shoulder, always). The theater is already packed. It would be encouraging, if Asra weren’t hanging back in the doorway.

Julian offers his arm and leans in. “I called in a favor. There are seats waiting for us in the front row,” Julian says. He stands straighter when Asra’s hand slips into the crook of his elbow.

“I just hope some poor short person isn’t seated behind you.”

“I, uh, hadn’t considered that.”

Asra’s head bumps against his shoulder. “I’m just teasing.”

He hunches anyway when they sit down, though it doesn’t help that Asra lets go. Julian’s attention is taken by chatting with his neighbor, a regular theatergoer, until the curtain begins to rise.  

The story reminds him of one he often told Pasha as a child, that of a princess and her lady knight. Intentionally absurd monster costumes lighten adventures into a perilous forest, and he catches Asra laughing several times. The play ends with the two being wed to uproarious applause.

Adrenaline carries Julian out the door and down the street, gesticulating while he tells Asra about Pasha’s old bedtime stories. As they had been at an early showing, the sun still fights to warm the town square, and Julian slowly realizes how active it is. When he asks after how Asra is doing with the crowd, Asra shrugs it off and makes a beeline for the fountain. He sits on the edge and trails his fingers in the water.

“How’s your play coming?” he asks while Julian settles next to him.

“It’s, uh, not. I just can’t settle on one idea—for instance, did I ever tell you about the time I challenged another ship’s captain to a duel?”

“Weren’t you the medic?”

“My captain may have, ah, gently pointed this out. But that meant only I knew he was under the weather and would be at a disadvantage. Besides, don’t count the medic out, we know all the best ways to dismember someone.”

A nearby elder that’s been feeding the pigeons gives him an odd look before scuttling off. With their food source gone, the birds disperse.

“You’re scaring people, Ilya.”

“Right, I’ll get to that one later.” Or never think of the now-cursed story again; with the animals gone, Asra seems less interested in their surroundings. “Ah, but for all the magic of theater, it’s hard to bring any of this to life on stage when I’ve lived it, you know? I need that salty breeze, a storm on the horizon…”

“Did you say magic?”

“Turn of phrase, dear.”

“I just don’t think I’ve ever heard you use ‘magic’ as a compliment.”

“You mean, I’ve used it to mean confounding, circular, cree— _yeowch_.” An icy drip down the back of his neck makes him whirl. A tendril of water pokes out of the fountain’s stream, retreating from his gaze like a slithering snake. Asra’s smirk is reflected in the water, which Julian doesn’t dare look away from now.

“Oh, very fun—actually, that was pretty funny. Do you think the audience would get a kick out of—that’s it!”

Julian leaps up from the fountain edge and waves his arms around for several moments before he can get out a sentence. “That stuff I was saying, the salt and rain and whatnot? You can—can you do that sort of thing?”

“Probably? Conjuring water is easy for me.”

“That makes one of us. So, hypothetically, you could do that in the theater?”

“You want my magic in one of your shows? You were just insulting it. You’ve been more creative with that before, by the way.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, I just—look, we both know I don’t understand witchcraft, but if the audience doesn’t either they’ll be blown away, right?” He begins pacing. “Not that I’ve ever been a fan of relying on cheap tricks, good theater barely even needs props, so many new actors these days think—”

“As fun as it is listening to you belittle my work, I should be in the shop doing it before it gets too dark.” Asra stands, and panic rises in Julian’s throat.

“Wait, I didn’t—”

“Didn’t mean it like that. I know.”

“Okay, I kind of did, and I’m sorry. God knows I have no room to talk, with, well, what I used to be able to do.” Julian kicks at the fountain’s base, then hisses. It’s not enough. “Can we back up a minute? You said doing—uh, was it conjuring—water was easy?”

“It is for me. Water’s my specialty, after all.”

“It is? Should I have known that? You said that like I should have known that.”

“You might have, if you ever wanted to learn about my magic.” Asra’s voice grows quieter than usual as he eyes passersby; _magic_ comes out in a whisper.

“I do want to—I’m trying to. Trying badly, that is. Would you like to take this somewhere private?”

“If you’re serious, we could head somewhere quieter.”

He agrees, even though he’s spit-balling too much to know how serious he is. He just knows he’d hate to leave Asra on a sour note, or at all, really. Having led them thus far, he follows Asra to a sparsely populated street. The water leaps in little spurts alongside Asra, like the canal is one long fountain.

_You’ve seen all kinds of fountains. Not so unusual_. Goosebumps still prickle Julian’s skin, thankfully covered by his usual attire.

“So, you have a specialty?” he ventures.

“Yeah. Honestly, it’s such a natural part of me I forgot you wouldn’t know.”

There are too many parts of Asra he doesn’t know to go down that rabbit hole. “Is that a magic thing, or a you thing?” Asra goes over the basic elements, and Julian snaps his fingers. “Oh! That’s just the four humors. Though I wouldn’t have associated you with phlegm. But I mean, your water thing, it’s just like my work with blood. Right?”

“Kind of. Fewer leeches, though. I’m not a swamp kind of person.”

“Har, har, not what I meant. Though there’s a lot of fun to be had in swamps.” He cuts himself off before he can start daydreaming about an adventure. “But it’s not like you don’t have windy powers, and such?”

“Fire’s hard, but sure.”

“We’re covered, then. Did you know some dashing devil around here set the count on fire?” Julian waggles his fingers in a pseudo-threatening pose, and Asra fails to cover a giggle.

“The theater will have to hire them, then. It would really boost the authenticity.”

“Good news. I hear they’re a famous actor. Sought after, even,” Julian says. This time, he notices Asra’s giggles break up the leaping water’s path in little dashes. His scientific mind wants to make Asra laugh harder as an experiment; the rest of him wants to out of endearment. He leans in conspiratorially. “I even heard the countess requested a performance.”

Asra stops short with a burst of laughter, and the water trail comes to an end with a splash. _Evidence_ , Julian thinks, as if he made a hypothesis besides ‘adorable.’ “Ilya, that’s awful.”

“I’ve been known to be.” His grin must produce the desired effect, as Asra playfully bumps him. They resume their meandering path. “Hypothetically, the whole show bit—that’s not some, uh, blasphemy to the Arcana, or whoever, to use magic for entertainment?” It’s hard not to see it all as a bunch of parlor tricks, but after dying to meet a giant power-granting bird man, he has to admit otherwise.

“Of course not. I used to do a little street performance to get by.”

“Street performance? You? Oh, I can just see that now, charming snakes and the crowd’s hearts.”

“Hardly. I was barely grown. I couldn’t even look at anyone, just made fancy lights and bubbles and stuff.” The water trail that had returned disperses, this time like it’s deflated, and Julian tries desperately to think of a terrible joke that would lift it again.

All he can think to do is take Asra’s hand, to bring him back from wherever he went. Asra looks between them with surprise, like he forgot Julian was there, before he returns the hold. They walk that way for a while, Julian scarcely breathing in case he’ll ruin it, his mind wandering to the ocean and wind and rain.

“That’s it!” he shouts again, startling Asra into dropping his hand. Julian instead places his on Asra’s shoulder. “That’s what my play ideas are missing. A ship magician, predicting the weather, calling storms upon enemy ships, uh, I don’t know if you can turn into a fish?”

“Am I your stagehand or your leading character now?” Asra’s bemusement makes Julian let go and rub his neck.

“I’m just throwing ideas at the wall. Better work it out on parchment, I suppose.”  

They aren’t far from the shop, and the sky has begun to darken. “I’ll let you get home and do that, then.”

“Would you like me to—”

“I don’t need anything else. Thanks for today. I had fun.” He seems to mean it, and Julian holds onto that warmly once they part, until his brain starts supplying all of the evidence to the contrary. There were the crowds, and his gaffes about magic, and he hadn’t ever said anything about Asra’s sad admission, had he?

At home, he makes coffee and gravitates toward his notes to record that day’s ideas, but he ends up scribbling down what Asra taught him about magic. It’s a short list, trailing off into _friends with jumpy little water stream?_ and _more research needed_.

With everything written down, he can’t let the idea of a ship magician go, not that he knows how to write about magic. It’d be easier to go with one of the dozens of stories from his past. Still, he can’t stop thinking about it—Asra in every part of his life, standing at the bow of a ship with his scarves rippling in the wind, or even walking beside him over the salt flats. 

He rests his head against the desk. There were moments where he tried to deny his feelings, but he’s far past that, just like it’s far too late to hope. It’s just incredible that Asra accepted him back into his life.

But removing him from the picture makes Julian’s ideas seem grey, so he makes as little progress as ever.


	6. The Perfect Time for a Journey

Sand swirls around Asra, though he doesn’t feel the wind. None of the dunes he’s passing are familiar; if he looks at them directly, they shift and crash like waves in the dry air, so he’s stopped trying. He stares forward at a horizon that never gets clearer or closer, at his own shadow in front of him, unaccompanied.   

Another shadow follows him, something oppressive he feels pulled to tend to. He doesn’t turn back. It’s never a good idea to stray from a path like this. The shadow leaks around his feet, stretching to follow his. When he tries to run, tar climbs up his ankles, trapping him in place.

The sand collapses into ash, still swirling, thick enough to choke him. Closing his eyes doesn’t erase the sudden knowledge of where he is. After all of that walking, his feet never left the shore.

 _Asra_.

Something cool touches his cheek. He opens his eyes to the glowing starry pattern of the shop ceiling. Faust is nudging him, her tongue sniffing his face.

 _Awake_.

“A dream, huh?” He doesn’t say _just_ —dreams are no small matters for magicians. “Thanks for waking me.”

 _Sweaty_.

He holds her and thinks of sand dunes until an impulse he’s fought other nights overtakes him. He leaves her with her favorite mouse toy, a mechanical contraption Nadia invented, and promises he’ll be back soon. Her worry still coils in his mind, but he knows leaving her here will stop him from doing anything too rash.

Though the ash can’t be following him down the streets, he floats outside himself just in case. He doesn’t register his surroundings until he’s knocking on Ilya’s door. A disheveled Ilya looks at Asra like a phantom has shown up on his steps. “Asra?”

“I figured you’d be awake.”

“That’s, uh, a safe bet, but what are you doing here? Are you in trouble?”

“No, I don’t think so. Can I come in?”

Ilya smacks his head on the doorframe in his haste to move out of the way. He waits for an explanation Asra can’t give while Asra scans his place. It hasn’t changed much since three years ago, other than some medical equipment from Ilya’s old clinic. It’s one large room, with space where a curtain might have separated the bed area, if Ilya ever had people over. Though there’s little in the way of decoration, it’s stocked with medical tools, books, wigs, and a handful of souvenirs—including the raven Asra gave him, displayed on a shelf by his bed, prominent enough to look lonely. Getting the sense he wasn’t supposed to see that, Asra opens a random medical text.

Ilya begins to go through his kitchen, which clearly isn’t stocked with much besides coffee and alcohol, and tries to offer Asra something anyway.

“I want to leave,” Asra says. “Leave Vesuvia, I mean. You coming?”

“Okay. Where to?”

Asra hasn’t even processed his own words yet; Ilya’s immediate acceptance leaves him reeling. “Wait, really? I just showed up, and you don’t even know where we’re going.”

“I’d go anywhere for you. Anytime. Right now, if you want.” Ilya scratches his head and stares into a cupboard like he didn’t mean to say that.

“That’s—hold on, should we actually do this? We both have things here we shouldn’t just drop, right?”

“You wanted a responsible reply, and you came to me?”

Asra laughs and drops his head into his hands. “I guess not. So, if we’re going to do this, we should check with our friends first, and wrap up work stuff. We shouldn’t be gone too long, just enough to…” _To outrun whatever chases us_. “…to have some fun.”

After a little more is established, there’s no reason not to exit into the chilly evening and leave Ilya to avoid sleep, so Asra can go home and also avoid sleep—except the lone raven figurine by the bedside is tugging at him, whispering that if Ilya would follow him anywhere, it would be simplest to lead him to bed.

Faust is waiting. Asra shoves his hands in his pockets. “See you soon, then.” He leaves before he can change his mind about either his rashness or his restraint.

* * *

Julian is already packed when the sun rises, even though he’s convinced Asra didn’t mean it; he wants to be able to leave on a moment’s notice, if Asra shows up to ask. A day of checking in with his recent patients and Mazelinka ends with him at Pasha’s cottage. Her garden is as full and healthy as ever; it has bloomed since before he returned to Vesuvia, telling him he doesn’t have to worry.

He’s so lost in thought he almost doesn’t notice Nadia sitting in Pasha’s rocker, Pepi curled up in her lap. The moment she pauses rocking, Pepi’s eye opens, and Nadia resumes. She’s clothed more simply than usual, with little adornment to her dress besides a shawl Julian swears belongs to Pasha. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought she lived there.

“Nadia! Er, Countess, I didn’t expect to find you here. Am I interrupting something?”

“Nadia will be fine, Doctor. Portia was about to gather something from the garden; perhaps you can aid her?”

This seems to be news to Pasha, who’s stirring something on the stove, but she quickly recovers. “Of course. Make yourself comfortable, um, Milady.”

“Oh, she seems comfortable to me,” Julian says. Pasha drags him outside before he can relay his message. The floral aromas mingle in an intoxicating natural perfume, and a flytrap seems to glow as it digests its supper.

“So your cottage is the countess’s favorite getaway, now, hm?”

“Not a word, Ilya. Nadia’s position is delicate, okay? If you cause problems for her, our grandmas won’t recognize you when I’m through.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You have my full confidence and support. Teasing you about your relationship problems is just so much more fun than worrying about my own.”

“Well, now you have to spill.”  

While he explains, Julian fiddles with the wisteria blossoms that bend to brush his shoulder. He’s been describing his upcoming trip all day, but not with this much stuttering and admittance of how little clue he has about what’s going on. Pasha looks unimpressed.

“You’re the only person I know who could make going on vacation with your long-time crush—who’s good-looking, by the way—into a problem.”

“Pasha. Asra thinks—I didn’t need to know you thought that, by the way—thinks sharing a bed with someone and petting their hair is just something friends do.”

“Okay, first of all, that explains a lot. Second, I’ve got my shovel in the cottage, if you want me to bury you.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Just like Julian doesn’t know why Asra invited _him_ , other than he would say yes.

“Maybe not, but I know you can’t just keep martyring yourself. Enjoy your trip, okay? And don’t you dare worry about me while you’re gone.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be well taken care of.” He gestures to the cottage with his brow arched, and the arms that had been wrapping around him swat him instead.

* * *

Asra summons lights to cut through the shadows deep in the forest. He’s glad to find the protections are holding, and gladder to not find many of Muriel and Carrow’s favorite foods to gather, as they must have recently filled their stores. As usual, he undoes the wards on the door and enters without warning; his ability to do so announces him.

He shouldn’t have risked startling them. Muriel is in the middle of shaving the side of Carrow’s head, tan skin showing below the wave of teal curls. It was that style that piqued Asra’s curiosity at their first faithful masquerade, like Carrow carried a bit of the ocean with him. Now furs wrap him in a cozy-looking bundle that makes Asra settle to see.

With those two barely fitting on the bed, Asra settles on the floor to pet Inanna. The casual way she leans into it suggests she gets petted often these days. The neat and tidy arrangement of the cabin’s few belongings also speak to Carrow’s influence, as do the books lined up on a shelf Muriel made.

Asra’s announcement deepens the creases in Muriel’s brow. “You’re traveling with that guy? Why?”

Asra tries to hide his red face behind Inanna’s fluffy neck, not that it probably works from the others’ vantage point. “He’s a friend. And we’re both seasoned travelers. You know me, I just need to explore sometimes.”

“It sounds like a wonderful idea,” Carrow says. “Where do you plan on going?”

“Ilya and I aren’t great at sticking to plans. I don’t even know how soon we’ll be back. Maybe I should leave Faust here.”

“You don’t have to do that. Muriel and I have everything covered.”

Muriel grunts in affirmation as he sets down his knife. He tries to brush away shorn curls from Carrow’s shoulder with a too-large thumb, and Carrow smiles.

“I know,” Asra says. “You’re both strong, and you’ll take care of each other. But if, if you need anything…”

Carrow slides down off the bed, furs slipping as he extends his arms. “I need my best friend to give me a hug, please, and then go have a great time.”  

Asra returns the embrace warmly, tucking his face in Carrow’s shoulder. It’s only when Carrow gives him a pat and pulls away that he can let go.

* * *

Julian’s feet dangle off the pier. It would be easy to simply drop off, he thinks every time he looks down at his wretched reflection, so instead he watches the Lazaret as if something about it will change. It’s static, no fire or smoke in the night.

He’s numb when footsteps stop nearby. Only a caw makes him look up at his visitor.

“Asra? What are you doing here?”

“I ran into Malak. I figured you’d be nearby.” He stands above Julian with the raven on his shoulder, framed by the moonlight, and if Julian hadn’t shut down his heart the sight would tug at him. Asra seems to have nothing else to say. Instead he sits next to Julian and looks out toward the Lazaret with Malak flitting around him.

The sound of the water’s ebb and flow doesn’t do enough to fill the night. “From here, it almost looks like a normal island,” Julian says.

“Not to me.” The ice in Asra’s tone shuts Julian up. Trying to stay quiet, he fails to sit still, swinging his legs like Pasha would have. He grabs stones to skip in the bay. Asra follows suit, skipping his much further. If Julian squints he can make out a shimmer around the stones.

“Cheater,” he mutters. From beside him comes the tiniest chuckle, barely a breath. He’s scared to bring up the trip, in case Asra never meant any of it, but Julian has looked more foolish. “So, uh, how’s your prep?”

“I saw Carrow and Muriel. The shop is taken care of, and I left a note in case my parents come home. You talked to Nadi, right?”

“Right.” Julian waits, then realizes that’s Asra’s whole list. _No wonder he wants to get out of here_. “They’re, uh, still doing well?”

“Yeah.” Asra says it like a quiet epiphany, his gaze fixed on the island. Malak nips at his scarf, and he shakes his head. “And you?”

“Pasha’s fine, I saw enough friends to tell anyone who looks for me, the theater has enough hands, the local leech club, my patients…”

 _My patients_. He cuts off his list before his voice can break.

“Are you sure about this? You have more going on than me.”

“Oh, I’ve been pretty idle, all things considered. No plague or clinic, after all. Or guards to watch for.” He picks up another stone and turns it around in his fingers. “You know I’d follow you anywhere. Unless that’s your way of saying you’re having second thoughts.”

“No.” There’s something odd in his voice that Julian can’t place. “So what brought you here tonight?”

Seeing Asra has stirred his numbness, leaving room for the grief of what just happened to pierce him. The stone drops in the water with a quiet _plink_.

“Like I said, I checked on my latest patients. Most everyone’s fine or knows where else to go, but the one I just called on didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry, Ilya.”

“They were a sweet old weaver, made the best pies. It happened this morning, I could have—if only I’d gone to them first. This—this used to happen all the time. It comes with the job, Dr. Satrinava taught me that early. But now I know I could have cured them in a second if I still had that ability.”

“Your body couldn’t take that forever.”

“It should have. These hands have failed hundreds of people, Asra. Thousands. Not to mention everything I did under Valdemar. And here I still act like I can…” He bites his lip, hard, to avoid finishing that sentence. He’d give all the healing power in the world not to fail Asra. His hands are shaking when he drops his head into them. “I shouldn’t even be a doctor.”

“Maybe not, if it’s taking this much out of you.”

Julian laughs mirthlessly. “It’s settled, then. I’m a failure forever.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. You _have_ helped a lot of people, Ilya, even if you think you should have saved them all. But seeing that many people die… Doesn’t that change you?”

“Of course it does.” He’s always been the nervous sort, but he wasn’t always filled with this rot; reminiscing with Pasha reminded him of that, lately. “Not as much as it changes those closest to them, though.”

Asra flinches. Julian’s head is still buried, but he senses it in the way Malak beats his wings. The raven takes off and swirls overheard.

“What’s done is done,” Asra says, his voice distant, like it’s underwater. He stands.

“Asra, I didn’t—”

Asra extends a hand. “Let’s go soon. Right now. Get both our minds off things.”

“Right now? Tonight?”

Asra gestures to the full moon’s reflection in the water. “The perfect time for a journey,” he says.

Julian doesn’t stop to question that before taking Asra’s hand. 


	7. Travel at Night

Normally, Asra wouldn’t be happy to be away from the water, but out in the open field his mind clears. There’s nothing to trap him, nowhere for predators to hide other than the grass, which sways around his legs in greeting. The night is clear enough for a blanket of stars to join the full moon, its light guiding him with mystic promise.

Faust is tucked snugly beneath his scarf. She pokes out to sniff the air, making Ilya jump. “Do you, uh, always travel with that—with Faust?”

“Unless I need her to keep an eye on something else. She’s a good travel buddy.” He tilts his head. “You’re not still scared of her, are you?”

“Scared? Me? I’ve never been scared of anything in my—”

_Squeeze!_

Malak squawks. “No!” Ilya says.

“Aw, Malak’s going to spoil all of our snake secrets, Faust.”

_Squeeze for him?_

More squawking. Asra laughs. Malak flies ahead, no doubt scouting for threats. His long-legged charge keeps trying to join him, racing ahead before he notices Asra ambling behind. There’s no rush to find a cure; they’ll end up somewhere, at some point. For now, Asra embraces the breeze in his curls and the possibilities on the horizon.

Unsurprisingly, Ilya is antsy for a plan. “There’s somewhere I want to stop first,” Asra says. “I don’t have any plans after that. Tell me your favorite places to visit.” That should keep Ilya occupied for the rest of their walk, not to mention take his mind off of his lost patient.

“Oh! Well, since you asked…”

Ilya tells him of overgrown jungles and ancient temples, getting sidetracked from the future with his past adventures. It all feels distant from this peaceful plain, but the moon is feeding the power in Asra’s veins, and the hint of danger in their journey is hard to resist.  

His feet are getting sore when they meet the beast at the edge of the desert, who shakes his many limbs out groggily. Ilya stands by, bemused, as Asra makes introductions.

“What, what even is that?”

“Don’t be rude, Ilya.”

_I don’t mind. He smells like fear, though_.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” Asra says. Ilya sneers.

“I already told you, nothing scares me.”

“Can you not hear him?”

“Hear? Er, it’s mooing?”

Ignoring Ilya, Asra pats the beast’s snout. “Is it all right if he rides, too? He’s a friend.”

_Then it’s fine_. _I can carry two_.

Ilya settles clumsily behind him, his legs stretching out around Asra. “Hang on tight. The beast runs fast,” Asra says. Sucking in a breath, Ilya wraps his arms around Asra’s waist. Asra leans back against him and feels him tense. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.”

“Oh, I’m not worried.”

_Fear and devotion_ , the beast amends. Asra adjusts his grip on the beast’s fur, finding his hands oddly slippery.

As they take off, he casts his remaining worries into the exhilarating wind. Even Ilya begins to relax, his body loosening around Asra, and lets out a whoop when the beast jumps over a ditch. They’re still running when the sun crests the horizon, bathing the fields in gold.

* * *

After what feels like hours with Asra’s warmth against his chest and hair tickling his chin, Julian makes a wobbly dismount. The beast settles in the shade with a final grunt. Asra tends to the garden of succulents in front of the house, which Julian can tell from Asra’s easy movements belongs to him. It’s like how Pasha always seems in front of her cottage, whistling with a shovel in her hand, like she’s meant to be in this place she built. It always fills Julian with pride, but there’s a longing underneath to experience the same thing. Watching Asra only intensifies it.

Sweat has accumulated underneath Julian’s eye patch, not to mention everything else not designed for the desert. Asra conjures up a couple handfuls of water for Julian to splash in his face.

“Thanks. That’s, uh, handier than usual in a place like this, huh? Wait, is that hard to do here? Do you need to conserve it for yourself?”

“It’s still my element. I’m fine.”

Questions about magic layer in Julian’s mind. Moving water is one thing, but how does one simply make it exist? Did he pull moisture from the air? Did it come from those other realms? It all makes him too dizzy to discuss, or perhaps that’s the heat, or the ride. It disorients him all the more when he smacks into the doorway, or rather, an invisible barrier across it.

“Okay, even for me, running into air is too much,” he groans.

“Sorry, forgot about that.” Asra looks conflicted for a moment before he waves a hand. “You can come in.”

Julian is still rubbing his nose when he heads inside and Asra begins to unpack. It strikes him he’s in Asra’s home, one Asra had to take down a barrier to let him in. It makes every bit of decor noteworthy—the beaded curtain, the potted cacti, the art in what must be a local style. He pokes around the small bookshelf, rejecting a book full of magical diagrams before flipping through a guide to the local wildlife.

Asra lets Faust down before shrugging out of his scarf and coat. “Just in time for a nap,” Asra says. Julian takes a few steps the other way, staring intently at a woven ornament hanging in the window.

“I’ll just, uh, explore the desert a bit.”

“You’re not tired, too?”

“Nonsense. I slept a day or two ago. The coffee’s just out of my system.”

“I don’t have any stocked here, sorry. You’ll have to settle for unconsciousness like the rest of us.”

“At some point.” Maybe he can just alternate shifts with Asra, and Pasha won’t need that shovel.

“Okay. Would you do me a favor?”

Julian turns back toward the bed Asra is climbing into. “Anything.”

“If I seem like I’m sleeping too long, wake me up.”

That alarms Julian. “Are you not feeling well? Did that, that trance coma thing happen again?”

“It’s just a precaution. Just, you know, as long as you’re here.” Asra rolls away from him, and the view is almost like that day Julian burst into the shop. He stands over Asra, hesitating before tucking the sheet around his shoulders.

“I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Asra nuzzles the pillow with a soft sound, and Julian has to force himself to leave the house.

* * *

Smoke fills Asra’s nostrils, his lungs. It’s enveloping him in great plumes, trying to stop him from reaching the furnaces. But he has to. Time’s almost up. He doesn’t know whether his face is wet with sweat or tears, only that when he calls there’s no response, only the roar of the fire and the smoke in his mouth.

He jolts awake. At first, he thinks the beach is above him, until he recognizes the tan roof of his sanctuary. When he breathes to calm himself, the smell of smoke lingers from his dreams. He gets up and rubs his eyes before the sight of the kitchen makes him freeze.

Ilya is trying to beat smoke out the window with his coat. Spotting Asra, he whirls. “Oh! You’re awake! Just in time, the, uh, beauty sleep really did you wonders—”

“Ilya. What are you _doing_.”

“I, ah, took a stroll in the desert, and I remembered reading these cacti are edible. I thought I’d make you breakfast. This stove doesn’t run on salamanders, I thought, how hard can it be?”

Somehow, the absurdity grounds Asra. He summons a puff of wind to air out the kitchen and slips in front of Ilya to move the pan off the stove. “As long as you’re all right and the house is still standing. I’ll make us something this time, okay? Why don’t you wash up?”

With someone to cook for, Asra can finally settle into the activity. Humming, he trims the salvageable cactus leaves to add to a few ingredients from his cupboard. He cuts up one of the fruits and waves Ilya over to slide a cube into his mouth, laughing at the bloody stain the juice leaves on his lips.

Breakfast is companionable, with Faust curled up in the sun and Ilya enjoying the food enough to give Asra warm satisfaction. A lizard sunbathes in the windowsill on the other side of Asra’s barrier. He listens, quiet but content, while Ilya describes everything he saw on his stroll.

‘It would be easy to take his hand, to cover up the exposed brand and rub with his thumb. It feels different—too personal—to do that now, just sitting here in his sanctuary, than to avoid getting lost in a crowd or for comfort on a walk. He restrains himself long enough for Ilya to hide the brand with his gloves.


	8. Raising Guards, Dropping Guards

After breakfast, they head out toward Nopal proper. On the way, they pass red-striped plateaus and tiny, large-eared foxes that watch them from a distance. To Asra’s delight, one grows curious enough to approach, almost running off with Ilya’s purse. The sand beneath their feet does not turn to ash, and the only blue it meets is the sky on the horizon.

Asra’s sense of freedom wanes when they arrive in town, creating a small spectacle without doing much. Ilya’s name doesn’t mean anything to Nopal, and even his schmoozing doesn’t distract the residents from the magician in their midst.

“Oh, great wizard, I had been hoping you would stop by,” Saguaro says while they stand around the well. As expected by now, Asra learned their name from Ilya’s introductions, even though Asra was supposed to know them. Even now, details about them swim at the edge of Asra’s mind. He considers telling them he’s a magician, not a wizard—but it seems beside the point, and it’s all he can do not to fidget under the attention.

“Is that so?”

Saguaro describes the drought that plagued Nopal after Lucio came through years before, and how a bunch of upturned beetle carcasses accompanied the water’s sudden return. “I had been looking for you at your house, but I should have known better.” Guilt pangs Asra before Saguaro continues, “You wizards don’t work so publically, do you? You brought back the water without us ever seeing.”

Baffled, Asra can only stare. Ilya elbows him. “Of course. My companion’s powers are secretive,” Ilya says.

“Oh, yeah. A, uh, wizard like myself works in mysterious ways.”

Asra confirms that all of the beetles have disappeared, checking the area around the well before pulling Ilya aside. “I can’t take credit for that, Ilya. I never even checked on this place.”

“It sounds like taking care of Lucio took care of their little pest problem anyway, though. All’s well that ends well, eh? Now, I’m interested in those cute little shops—oh, is that the one where you got my raven?” He points to one with a line of figurines on the windowsill.

Asra doesn’t have time to ponder how far-reaching their recent actions were before being swept up in Ilya’s shopping, if ‘shopping’ is the right term when the sellers have been informed he’s their ‘savior.’ The treatment makes his face heat. Ilya gives his back a quick rub.

At least the figurines don’t disappoint. “I usually can’t find elephants. Carrow will be thrilled,” Asra says. He always dreamed of bringing Carrow here, but it doesn’t seem likely now; the souvenir will have to do. “Do you know what Portia would want?”

Ilya is already picking up a little cat with a mischievous expression. His free hand curls and swipes at the air. “Spitting image of her, hm?”

From there, Ilya gets caught up chatting with a salt merchant. After an afternoon exploring, Ilya seems wobbly on his feet. He insists he’s fine, of course, never better, and that it would be a shame to leave—the town wants to throw festivities for them, after all.

“It’s still a hike back,” Asra says. “And it doesn’t feel right letting them spend too much making a fuss over me.”

“They should, you’re worth fussing over. The most. Most worth it, not the most fussing, though I guess that follows—oh, this heat’s getting to me.”

They’re past the hottest part of the day, but getting Ilya to admit he needs sleep is a lost cause. “You’re a doctor, you know what heat stroke can do.”

“I do. Blasted heat. It’s appropriately freezing by this time, where I’m from. Hey, Asra? This place has good people. I’m glad they appreciate you.”

Asra shuffles in the sand. “It’s not really me they appreciate. But yes, they’re good.”

“That’s their loss, then. You’re fantastic.”

Asra has to look away. “You’re really not made for this climate, huh? We should head back. I’m getting tired.”

“Asra? Asra, are you—did I—”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” He tries to smile reassuringly. “We can come back tomorrow.”

The walk back has Ilya rambling about nothing in particular until he trails off. Vultures circling overhead quicken their pace. The sun has set when they return, but Ilya is still mumbling about not needing sleep. Asra prods him into removing his coats.

“C’mon, you look dead on your feet.”

“I was hung once, you might have heard.”

“You might have mentioned.” Of course he had heard—but he couldn’t bring himself to watch. He’d been making preparations at the time, just in case there was a way for him to keep Ilya’s soul from drifting too far. Truthfully, he hadn’t gotten anywhere with it. He even worked on a raven mask, unable to believe Ilya would miss a masquerade, even as he told himself not to hope. It was too hard to think of losing someone while he wasn’t looking, while he was running, after having a fight.

He shakes himself. Everything is fine now. He slides into bed and holds up the sheet in invitation. “The desert gets cold at night. We can keep each other warm.”

“I’d, uh, hate to let you get cold.” Ilya fumbles with his boots for a while before joining him. As soon as the weight adjusts against the mattress, a weight lifts from Asra. Sleeping alone really had unsettled him.

The press of something icy against his ankle makes him gasp, then giggle. “Ilya, your feet are freezing.”

“Oh? Weren’t you going to warm them up?” Toes tickle Asra, and he muffles his laughter against the pillow.

“You’re ridiculous. Goodnight.”

Ilya retreats, his long form managing to stay as far from Asra as possible. Asra holds in a sigh. It’s been years since he slept with Ilya’s arm around him. It was a lifeline, all that was anchoring him there, and he’d felt conflicted about it. Now he misses it, or at least, how it could have been.

* * *

If Asra dreams, he doesn’t hold onto it in the morning. Other concerns are on his mind. It worries him that Lucio victimized the people of Nopal all this time, and Asra never knew. Lucio shouldn’t be able to hurt them now, and Asra can’t protect them from every possible problem, but he wants to try.

“Protections? What does that entail?” Ilya asks.

“Are you actually interested in magic now?” Ilya’s recent questions about it had been so sudden Asra couldn’t be sure.

“We’re traveling together, and I only have the faintest understanding of what you do. Less than faint, really. Besides, I want to help if I can.”

In the past, Ilya never would have done this. Offered to help out of a sense of martyrdom, maybe, but not with the intent to understand. As tempting as it is to tease him, it feels fairer for Asra to try, too. He explains that he wants to make talismans to protect the town against another invasion, as well as a charm to bless the water supply. Ilya asks how they work, then asks again, clearly not satisfied with his answer.

“A lot of it is intention,” Asra says.

“Just thinking makes it work?”

“Thoughts shape reality. Being a magician is about making wishes manifest.”

“Yes, but _how_? And don’t give me the line about ‘just feeling it’ again, if my wishes could cure patients there’d be no illness.”

Reminding Ilya what he used to be able to do will probably just get them off track; talismans don’t require pacts. “I _do_ feel it. I mean, it’s more complicated than that, but that’s part of it. I can’t just cut that piece out.” Asra rubs his temple. He never really taught Carrow so much as tapped into something he already had. It wasn’t like speaking two different languages. “Whether you get it or not, I have to get started. Could you go into town and pick up a list of things for me?”

“Oh, that I can do. I gather all sorts of strange things for medicines.”

When Ilya leaves, Asra lets out a breath. Even if he’s mostly enjoyed Ilya’s company, he needs space to relax. Meaning to do chores, he ends up lying in bed with Faust coiled on his stomach, staring at the painted animals he keeps on a shelf. He bought the owl for Nadia ages ago, and by the time he remembered, it had been too late. It’s not now.

Though it’s a happy thought, worry washes over him. What is she doing now? She can keep herself safe, but is she happy? Faust slides up to prod at his jaw.

“I’m fine,” he says. He’s at home, in a sense, and only a day’s travel from Vesuvia, but he’s already homesick. Just as he wonders if this was a mistake, Ilya bursts in, covered in sweat.

“I’m back! Did you miss me, I found everything—are you okay? Did I wake you?”

“I was just thinking.”

Ilya begins rummaging through his bag. “By everything, I mean, uh, everything except the basilisk scales. That stumped everyone I asked, but I have some prime snake skin.”

Faust tilts her head. _Shed_? Asra forgot he added that to the list in a moment of irritation. Not getting to watch Ilya puzzle it out cheapens the joke. “I’m sure I can manage without. Thanks.”

He feels Ilya’s eye on him as he spreads out the materials. He could find Ilya another task, away from his magic, but Ilya’s earlier medicine comment has him thinking. “Do you want me to explain what each of these things does?” Asra asks. “It’s like a bunch of ingredients, right?” 

“Oh! Why didn’t you just say so?”

Asra goes over all of the components, then sorts them into two piles and discusses them in combination. Though Ilya still seems a little lost, he doesn’t interject about how nonsensical it seems.

“And the ones to guard the town are going to be shaped like shields, but the ones for water will have to be looser,” Asra says. “Aw, I need to get started before the moon throws all of this off.”

Ilya scrambles off to take notes while Asra begins crafting. The process soothes him; he can’t think about anything but the purpose of the creations, or they won’t work. When he’s done, Ilya examines one, praising its craftsmanship. Asra rubs his nose.

“These are nothing, really. My dad’s work is more intricate.” He never got a chance to teach Asra more than basic talismans and a little art.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it nothing. It’s not so easy to make beads look like water droplets.” Ilya swings one of the water charms like a little bell, letting it shimmer in the twilight. It looks more magical than it did in Asra’s hands.

* * *

While Ilya gives the townsfolk medical checkups, Asra places the protections around town. He’s hanging up the last talisman when an especially sharp gaze raises the hair on the back of his neck. The person watching turns out to be anything but threatening, with familiar features and a wide smile.

“Oh, you’re Dia’s friend! What a wonderful twist of fate.”

“Fate does like its twists,” Asra says, trying to remember which of Nadia’s sisters this is. “What brings you here, Your Highness?”

“Please, call me Navra. I have a studio in town. Did you make these delightful charms yourself?”

He mumbles an explanation of their purpose while she ushers him into her studio. Though he’s polite about it, he’s nervous about what she might ask; Ilya isn’t around to lead the conversation, and the townsfolk have been paying Asra’s work close attention all day. As soon as he enters, pottery in a range of styles consumes his curiosity, which she’s happy to indulge.

A stately wolf tilts its head on the side of one pot, reminding him of Inanna. Without thinking he pulls out his card for the Moon.  

Navra exclaims over it. “Oh, this one just _speaks_ to me. Not the way it speaks to you, I assume,” she says before he can ask. “Where did you get it?”

“I made it.” He can’t quite look at her wide eyes.

“It is lovely. Do you take commissions?”

“You want a tarot deck?”

“Oh, no, just a painting like that one. You have such an evocative style.”

Asra sputters out a recommendation for his father, whose tarot illustrations he referenced. Navra insists that Asra is the one who is here, and the one who has impressed her. They part with an arrangement.

“See? I told you people appreciate you,” Ilya says when Asra catches him up. Asra can’t help the smile that creeps up his face.

The next day, Ilya continues his work, and Asra borrows some of Navra’s supplies for a painting. As friendly as she is, art must have taught her patience, for she leaves him to it while she works at her wheel. The studio’s quiet focus relaxes him bit by bit. Thankfully, his piece of a wolf howling in the desert delights her, and she sends him off with an elaborate necklace in exchange.

Later, while he and Ilya prepare to nap, they plan the next leg of their journey. “Too bad, I’ve met some lovely people,” Ilya says. He describes some of them, everything from their quirks to their kindnesses to bizarre stories from their pasts. In just a few days, he’s learned enough to give a tour. He’s in mid-sentence when Asra bolts up from the pillow.

“Hey, Ilya? What’s the baker’s name?”

“Er, which baker?”

“In Vesuvia. The one who makes the best bread.”

“Salasi, wasn’t it? Isn’t he a friend of yours?”

Without explaining, Asra lies back down. He commits the name to memory.


	9. Moving Mountains

They hit the road with enough of the moon showing to guide them. The beast’s strange appearance is already routine, but Julian will never be prepared to ride behind Asra. It’s a struggle to not fall off without holding on too tight. Once the beast picks up speed, the matter is settled without him, and it’s easy to forget himself with Asra in his arms. It’s both a disappointment and a relief whenever they stop for rest, forcing him back down to earth.

They camp at a watering hole to let the beast drink. A squirrel lies hurt a ways off. Julian touches it, but it does nothing. “I still forget,” he mutters.

“You’re not in charge of nature, Ilya. Besides, I’d be down a traveling companion if you martyred yourself over a squirrel.”

“I’d have healed.” He leaves the animal to Malak and continues, lost enough in thought to trip over the occasional hole. What good is he, if he can’t even do anything for a rodent? When did something he used to call a curse become a phantom limb? He’s seen Asra heal small wounds; if only he could at least do that.

It’s useless. Learning is one thing—he’s misunderstood Asra too much, made too many assumptions, not to try to understand now—but he’ll never have talent with magic. A spurt of water splashes his face, interrupting his train of thought, and Asra grins at him.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard.”

“I was thinking we could head out to sea. Not too far, of course, the seas get dangerous, but sailing really puts the world in perspective, and I know some great port cities.”

While Julian goes on, Asra curls up, murmuring his assent to the general suggestion before drifting off.

He’s vigilant while Asra sleeps. Bandits or wild animals could creep up, or Asra could get stuck in that other plane again. That also means Julian can’t wander, and he ends up passing out, trusting on some level that Malak will wake them if need be.

He wakes himself hours later. Faust wiggles back and forth next to him, giving him a minor heart attack. The source of her agitation becomes clear when he sees Asra twitching, sweat beading his creased brow. He shakes him awake.

“Asra! Are you all right? Were you stuck again?”  
  
Asra rolls on his back and yawns. “Just a nightmare.”

“They’re the worst, aren’t they?” He dreamed of an operating table, he thinks; he’s trying to shake off the details. “Do you, uh, need anything?” He scans the watering hole for something to offer.

“I’m fine.” Asra rolls over, but Julian can’t bring himself to sleep again.

* * *

The next day of travel goes more or less the same, and the next, until they come to a halt. A slope of rock and mud blocks their path, evidence of a recent avalanche, though nothing else in the area seems unstable.  
  
Asra slides off the beast to investigate. “This wasn’t here the last time I came through this way,” he says. “We’ll have to find a way around.”  
  
“Why don’t we just go through that tunnel?”  
  
“Tunnel?”  
  
Julian gestures at a lit hole in the cliff side. “Look, that entrance over there. People must have used it recently—it’s already lined with torches.”  
  
“Torches? Is that what you see?”  
  
“It’s lit up. What else could it be?”

“That’s not a tunnel. It’s a portal. I’m surprised you can see it.”

Rather than ponder what that means, Julian decides to take a look. Asra leaves the beast with food and joins him. Up close, Julian can see he’s right; they have no clearer image of what’s past the glow than they did from afar. Even the local wildlife gives it a wide berth.

“We should be careful. We don’t know where it leads,” Asra says.

“Nonsense. It clearly goes through the cliff. Besides, I’m not scared of a little glowing—”

He sticks his arm through the portal and is immediately sucked inside.

For several agonizing moments, his eyes are squeezed shut. He opens them to a miasma of colors with no walls or ceiling, no way of telling up from down. Flailing doesn’t help; Julian can’t tell if he’s spinning endlessly or standing in place.

A hand seizes his sleeve. He whirls on Asra, who tells him to stand still and breathe. Julian is almost surprised he still can. When he looks down, he can’t tell if there’s ground beneath his feat. Bits of red stain the area around him in lieu of a shadow, while purple emanates from beneath Asra.

“So, I didn’t think that through,” Julian says. “Where are we?”  
  
Asra pats down his own face like he’s surprised it’s still there. “Our souls aren’t on another plane. This must be an extra pocket of space, somehow.”  
  
“I don’t really get it, but it’s not like the Hanged Man’s realm, is it?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then I’m lost.”

“It’s okay. I’ll get us out. Just follow me, and don’t touch anything.”

“Shouldn’t you get behind me, in case some uh, foul beast is behind all this?” Julian asks. Asra levels him with an icy look that makes his ears hot. “Right, you’re the magician. Carry on.”

When Julian suggests they leave some sort of trail, Asra gestures toward the way they came, which has no visible entrance. “We’ll just have to make sure we aren’t separated,” Asra says, reaching back to take his hand. Gripping tightly, Julian follows, his head swiveling and his free fingers twitching toward the daggers in his boots.

A shriek in his mind makes him stop short. An extra layer of panic beats against his own anxiety, like it comes from outside himself. “Malak,” he says. “He’s still outside, he doesn’t know where I am, I have to get to him—”  
  
“Breathe, Ilya! You’ll just scare him more.” As he says it, the shrieking intensifies, making it hard to think. The red patch beneath Julian spreads in jagged shapes. Asra takes his other hand, squeezing both of them. “Don’t worry. Faust is outside, too. I’ll keep her updated, and she can update Malak.”

For someone he once thought unfathomable, it’s strange to cling onto Asra to ground him, but nothing makes sense besides Asra rubbing tension from his palms. The red patch ebbs as the rest of him eases.

“You know, I’ve taken all sorts of detours on my travels, and I always come out somewhere in the end,” Julian says. “They’re just usually, uh, physical. Like that time in the jungle.”

He’s not listening to his words spill out while he follows Asra, who probably isn’t listening, either. The colors pulse around them until Julian feels like he’s stuck in his own heartbeat. Other than shifts in colors, there’s no way to tell if they’re getting anywhere. Julian nearly bowls Asra over when he halts.

“So, somehow the magic in this place was thrown out of balance,” Asra says. “That must be why the cliff collapsed. If we’re going to get out of here, I’ll have to straighten it out.” As he explains, he’s studied rituals like that, but would need more components than they have available.

“Fantastic! We’re doomed,” Julian says.

“We can’t start thinking like that. There has to be a way out.”

“Where?” Julian waves an arm toward a stretch of blue, which becomes blotted with purple like an ink stain.

“It’s not a matter of where, but how.”  
  
“And we know how, do we?”  
  
“No, but we can’t give up. So much of magic is based in willpower, belief. Hope.”

Julian can’t even manage a flippant remark, like Dr. Satrinava would have done under this kind of stress. “That again. I’m sorry, Asra, I know you’re capable of things I can’t begin to understand, but I can’t believe that just thinking we’re getting out of this creepy rainbow vortex will make it happen.”

“Start thinking of another way, then.”

Julian’s foot taps soundlessly. “I need to do some experiments.”

He swivels without orienting himself. He moves in several directions without the ‘walls’ getting any closer. He tries to touch a section of color to his side, then below him, both with and without gloves. None of it gets him anywhere.

The red stain spreads again, this time twisting along with his frustration. The area beneath Asra’s feet doesn’t change, nor does his face; he seems to be meditating.

“Hey, Asra. You’re, uh, better at controlling your feelings than I am.”  
  
“What about it?”

“Would you help with a little experiment? I think the colors change whenever I freak out. God, that sounds like nonsense.”

“No, that’s a good observation. I was trying to stay calm, so I wouldn’t have noticed. Let’s see.”

Nothing happens at first. Then the purple beneath Asra flickers like candlelight, wavering before bursting, like the space around them has caught fire. It billows over the other colors, mixing into smoky walls that press around Julian, as if the air is expanding, begging to find more space inside his lungs.

“Uh, wow,” Julian sputters. “What’s going on in your head?”  
  
After several breaths, Asra manages to soak most of his color back in, with the remnants palpitating. His face is as red as Julian’s emotion-shadow. “It doesn’t matter. I think you’re right, our feelings affect this place.”

“Normally I’d test a hypothesis further, but I’d say that was pretty conclusive.” Just when he thought Asra wasn’t such a mystery, he has to wrap his mind around how much is trapped inside him. “Except now what? Is it a puzzle? Are we supposed to feel things in the right order, or stop feeling, or what?”

“I only have one hunch, but you’re not going to like it,” Asra says.  
  
“Let me guess. Believe we’ll get out.”

“More or less. If this place is unbalanced, maybe _our_ emotions need to balance it. I think we should accept whatever’s wrong here in the first place.”

“Oh, I accept something’s wrong. Look at this mess we’re in. Can’t wait to wake up.”

“I’m not sure treating it like a dream qualifies.”  
  
“All right, then. We’re trapped in this rainbow feelings vortex for real, except we’re not trapped, because we’re definitely getting out. Do you hear me, color tunnel?”

Nothing.

With a sigh, Asra steps forward and takes Julian’s hands again, forcing his gaze down. The red flares, seeping into the purple. Asra’s eyes lock with his. “I know you don’t really believe in all of this, but do you believe in me?”

Swallowing doesn’t relieve Julian’s dry mouth. “Yes. I do.”

“Then trust me,” Asra says with a smile. “We’ll get out. Our adventure’s just started, after all.”

That’s true. They still need to sail the high seas, averting pirates and sea monsters. They need to wobble across the docks on their sea legs and get lost in the port city. And they need to head home, where Pasha is waiting.

The red and purple blend into maroon. Julian only notices because it’s spread to surround them, tinting Asra’s eyes and hair.

When he refocuses on their surroundings, they’re standing beside the cliff. Clammy inside his gloves, Julian lets go, searching for any sign of the portal. It’s vanished along with the roadblock.

“There were rocks there before, weren’t there?”  
  
“Yeah. Straightening out the magic must have fixed it, if they were even really there. Lucky us.”

Part of Julian thinks it was all a fever dream, though the frantic way Malak and Faust approach them says otherwise. Another part of him, the unscientific part, thinks this is proof his feelings for Asra can move mountains.


	10. Adrift

The shore is still in sight when Ilya begins to pace the ship deck. Other passengers have been watching land shrink in the distance, though Ilya gives off enough former pirate vibes that they’re all crowded around other sections of railing. It gives Asra plenty of space where he’s leaning.

“The last time I signed up as a ship doctor, we got boarded by pirates,” Ilya says. “Let’s hope I’m not just a bad omen.”

“We’re only going to a nearby port city,” Asra says.

“Lots to tempt a pirate near ports.”

“You probably know more about fighting pirates than most of the passengers. Besides, I’ll keep us safe.”

“I know you’ve got a lot of, uh, tricks up your sleeves, but are you sure? You don’t know pirates.”

“I know one’s weak spot.” He tickles a particular area of Ilya’s abdomen, earning a chuckle. “Don’t worry. If something nasty is coming, the cards will warn me. And I’m no slouch in a fight, if it comes to that.”

“Oh, I never said I was, either. And, uh, I’m not really worried. Hell, I know where the lifeboats are. Even if this ship goes down, I’m getting you to safety.”

Asra sighs. It’s clear nothing he’s saying is getting through.

“We just got out here,” Asra says. The beast is probably still napping before his own journey home. “No use thinking about the worst, it’ll just make it happen. You must have some sailor secrets to share with me. I haven’t explored a ship since I was a child, and those were just sitting in the docks.”

“Oh, do I ever.” Before Ilya can show him around, the captain approaches, saying a first-time passenger is already seasick. Apologetically, Ilya runs off, leaving Asra to watch the coast melt into the horizon. The sky is clear, and the sun casts a glittering web over the sea.

_A shiny water_! Faust says.

“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” Asra asks. It’s easy to imagine whatever’s following him was left stranded on land. Malak isn’t so relaxed; he’s patrolling overhead, valiantly failing to keep seagulls away from his new territory.

When Ilya returns, he leans an elbow against the railing, gazing out with a look of rare serenity. It suits him, like that jaunty posture and rumpled shirt of his would never fit another setting. The eye patch even looks like it’s meant to be there, not covering up an alarming view.

“Nothing like it, eh?” Ilya says. Asra murmurs agreement.

After a tour, Ilya shows him where they’re sleeping. To call their sleeping quarters a _cabin_ would be generous. It’s more of a compartment, probably meant to store something besides humans, considering they got on the ship last minute with only Ilya’s work as payment.

“Downright roomy, compared to the hole at Mazelinka’s,” Ilya claims. “But, er, not that roomy. If you want to take first shift, I’m sure I can keep myself occupied.”

“If we spend the whole trip switching off naps, we’ll never see each other.” Asra climbs into the compartment and curls up against one side. He wiggles experimentally. “C’mon, it’s roomier than it looks.”

Ilya climbs in clumsily beside him. He hadn’t accounted for Ilya’s long legs, which bend and twitch to fit without bumping him, to no avail. After Ilya’s third apology, Asra tucks himself against Ilya’s shoulder and slips his foot between Ilya’s legs. Ilya goes rigid.

“Not better?” Asra asks.

“A, a little bit.” His arm hovers over Asra in obvious question, which he answers by scooting closer. The arm wraps around him. “I wouldn’t, ah, want you to get hurt, if the ship jostles.”

“Good point.” Closing his eyes, Asra imagines a bubble sealing the edges of the compartment.

“I felt that. What did you do?”

“Kept you from hitting your head. It’s just a minor shield.”

“Useful trick, that.”

Asra waits for a barb or question that never comes. His hand curls against Ilya’s abdomen. The ship rocks beneath them in a rhythm he becomes accustomed to, and he thinks it’s funny that he had to come out to sea to feel safe and warm.

* * *

The shore is almost behind him. He doesn’t dare look back, but he sees the smoke out of the corner of his eye. It’s too far away to sting, and the sky ahead is clear red.

Minutes pass, hours. His peripheral view is the same. His lungs constrict. He wants to sink beneath the waves; underwater, he’s never had to breathe.

Instead, he summons a wave beneath the ship to propel it forward, faster, farther. He’s in the clear when a strip of white appears on the horizon in front of him. A beach, billowing smoke.

Asra startles awake, salty air amplifying the stench of sweat. It doesn’t help that his nose is practically crammed in an armpit. He backs away, his head bumping against his magic, reminding him where he is and whose legs are tangled with his.

Whatever security the position had given him before vanishes. He’s too hot. His limbs feel cramped, and he’s fighting back nausea along with anxiety at his confinement. He opens the hatch and climbs out, hearing Ilya exhale behind him. It’s a while before Ilya joins him on the deck, rumpled like he didn’t wake up until just now, though the illusion doesn’t fool Asra.

They’re saved some of the awkwardness by Ilya’s duties as ship doctor, which keep him occupied most of the day. Asra ends up observing in snatches out of curiosity. The way Carrow’s apprenticeship ended made Asra avoid anything to do with doctoring, but it’s hard not to get lulled by Ilya’s bedside manner. With the gentle, confident way he talks to his patients and his capable hands’ assured movements, most would never guess how jittery he could be. Even Asra gets taken in during moments where he pays no attention to the patients at all.

He catches himself staring, his face hot, and slips out of the cabin.

* * *

A few days into their voyage, Julian wakes to a song that reverberates deep inside him, blocking out the usual noise in his head. He shakes Asra, earning mumbles. “You don’t want to miss this, trust me,” Julian says.

He manages to drag Asra above deck, where the song is louder and clearer. After a moment, a great creature crests the waves, shooting out a spray of water before diving again. Having seen this before, Julian instead watches awe transform Asra’s face, the light in his eyes and the dimple that creases his cheek when he laughs. Julian feels buoyant.

It’s not the only wonderful thing he gets to show Asra. Other sea creatures inspect their ship. Sunrises and rainbows meet the horizon in bursts of color. Each time, he thinks this wasn’t all a mistake, that he isn’t going to get Asra killed at sea or disgust him so much he drops Julian the second they get to port. He’s trying not to fall into old, terrible habits—assumptions, selfish hopes—but in their days at sea, it falls apart every time Asra dozes off in his arms. That’s when Julian lies to himself that he can keep Asra safe, as if Asra didn’t set up the shield, saving Julian from yet more concussions; as if Asra didn’t get them out of that magic tunnel Julian stumbled into; as if Julian didn’t waste his chance.

There’s only so much time he can spend at sea before he starts imagining storms crackling with magic, leaving his parents at the bottom of the ocean. When not crammed into a cubby, he tries to keep himself as occupied as possible. His feet or mouth are always running, often both, preferably by pacing the deck while talking to Asra.

“I’ve been thinking about that play, the pirate one,” Julian says one day. “No better place to get inspiration, right? Truth be told, though, I’m more of an improv guy. Sitting by myself at a desk is just asking for thoughts, which is never a good thing, if you’re me.”

“Talk it out with me, then.”

A shiver still slides down his spine every time Asra gives him anything resembling a command, even if it’s more casual than that. He chews his lip and tries to narrow down his ideas. “So, our hero hasn’t been a pirate for long, right? He’s still learning the ropes, but he needs to prove his usefulness to his new captain, or he’ll be walking the plank.”

“Didn’t the captain take him on for a specific role?”

“Of course, but it never hurts to diversify. If you can only do one thing, the second that’s no longer needed, you’re sunk. Er, literally, in this case.”

“Please tell me you’re not going to include that joke,” Asra says, though he’s smiling.

“At least twice. So, our hero’s not bad at swapping out limbs for pegs, but the pirates only have so many limbs. And nobody’s protecting him when other pirates or the authorities catch up. He needs to learn to fight—and fast.”

“Please also tell me he learned before challenging that other pirate captain you mentioned before?”

It surprises Julian that Asra remembers; he doesn’t expect anyone to pay attention to his rambling, least of all someone with galaxies in his mind. “Ah, well, a little bit? It’s best to learn on the job, though, and to learn from the best.”

Asra looks alarmed, like Julian isn’t standing whole in front of him, or this fictionalized hero won’t make it the same. “Please _at least_ tell me that wasn’t all to impress his own captain.”

“It wasn’t all to impress the captain. Just mostly. How can you get rid of someone who can duel with the best of’em, hm?”

“Is losing your head in a duel better than being kicked off the ship?”

“I suppose it’s all the same in the end. One is just more dashing and less, er, prolonged. Or painful.”

The usual dread has lodged itself in the pit of his stomach, and he lets the lull in conversation sit there while gulls cry overhead.


	11. Making Waves

Being at sea only feels carefree for so long. There’s not enough to explore, and too much time to think. Too many things that could be going wrong for Asra’s friends back home, or for his parents. Too many turbulent waves that rock the ship beneath his feet. Too many chances for his gaze to wander down everything Ilya’s shirt doesn’t cover.

Asra watches the water resolutely. It’s not strange to find someone he used to be with attractive, or else why would he have done it in the first place? Nor is it unusual for him to enjoy a friend’s company, to rest a hand on their arm, or even sleep beside them. Held close enough for Ilya’s chest hair to tickle his cheek, as has become their naptime routine, is another matter. They didn’t even really do this back then. Asra would turn away, and Ilya would settle an arm around his waist, loose enough that he could easily leave before dawn. This way feels more reassuring as he drifts off and scarier when he wakes.

It’s only temporary. Wherever they end up next, they’ll have plenty of room to spread out, and eventually they’ll return home, where they’ll settle back to their regular lives. The thought isn’t as comforting as it should be.

At least he’ll get to see his other friends again. More than once, Ilya has comforted him during bouts of homesickness by sharing stories. “Did I ever tell you about Brundle? Wonderful grandma of a puppy, she and Carrow got along famously. He was the only one patient enough to get her to play.” Asra can picture it.

Surprisingly, he’s begun to make new friends among the passengers. At first, he avoided them as much as the cramped quarters allowed; if they disliked him, they’d all be stuck together, and he can’t exactly make _friends_ with people he’ll probably never see again. But over meals, he’s enjoyed getting to know the author on her honeymoon, which she’s spent writing love poems to her wife; swapping travel stories with the elder on one final trek home; and joining Ilya in amusing a single parent’s child with card tricks. If Asra were traveling alone, he might have missed all of this.

For his part, Ilya has become stir-crazy. He’s chatted up every passenger, including some less amused people with nowhere to claim they needed to be. He’s led the crew in sea shanties. He’s chased the ship cat, which Asra already decided to leave alone, as she always darts off to hide behind the captain—who’s never amused by the pair’s shenanigans. Ilya’s volunteered to do every possible job on the ship, and gotten permission for several. He and Asra have even tried to climb the masts, to say nothing of their impromptu swim in still waters, which was refreshing before they almost got left behind.

The cards are quiet. They’ve encountered no other ships, and the worst the weather has gotten is a light rain, which Asra soaked up happily on deck.

It gives some of the clearest views of the stars he can remember. Late at night, he and Ilya lean against the railing, chatting about constellations they’ve both learned in their travels. It’s cozier than those lost days where Asra watched the constellations spread apart in his gate until he went numb.

“Ah, the North Star, a sailor’s old friend,” Ilya says. He waves to it, making Asra grin.

“You really missed the sea, huh?”

“Nothing like it, is there? You know, you once said you always know where north is.” Ilya speaks slowly, like he’s learning the information as he says it. Asra recognizes it from the way Carrow speaks when he’s regaining a memory. “You had that, that strange compass.”

Heat rushes to Asra’s face. He hopes the stars aren’t bright enough to illuminate it; Ilya is looking down at him in obvious question. “Yeah, I forgot you used that.” Asra’s giggle rings false. “You got us completely lost. Poor Nadi.”

“It pointed to you,” Ilya says. Asra’s mouth goes dry. “You, uh, don’t really need a compass to tell you where you are, do you?”

“It doesn’t point to me when I hold it.”

“Then where does it point?”

He shrugs. “It’s broken. And I lost it.”

Ilya is still studying him. He’s close, Asra realizes, close enough to distract from his puzzle by pulling him closer.

An ominous wailing from Asra’s pocket interrupts that thought. When he reaches for his cards, the Tower practically leaps into his hand.

Its message has him halfway to the captain’s quarters before he remembers to double back for Ilya, who he gets the feeling he’ll need for backup. They’re already knocking on the door when it occurs to him Ilya might not help his case. Not happy to be woken by the ship’s two biggest troublemakers, the captain doesn’t let them inside her cabin, and Asra tries to be as polite as possible to smooth things over. His explanation of how he knows a storm is coming soon becomes a jumble.

The captain looks unimpressed, though Asra notices a slight tremor in the tattooed arm holding open her door. “You could have mentioned you were a witch when you boarded,” she says. The ship’s cat weaves around her legs, its ears flat against its head. “How do I know you didn’t curse the sky yourself? Unless you’re just flapping my sail?”

“Either he can curse the whole sky, or he’s a charlatan? Those are your only choices?” Ilya’s sneer falters as something seems to occur to him.

“I understand it might be hard to believe, but what would I gain from lying about this?” Asra asks. The captain drums her fingers against the door.

“A lark? You two have been dying of boredom for days now. Or maybe you want me to stall the ship so friends of yours can catch up.”

“I swear, I wouldn’t…!”

“See here,” Ilya says. “You’re going to regret not listening to my companion.”

“I’m not bending to your tone, or to any sea dog’s threats.” She gives Ilya a pointed look, and Asra notices the sabers hanging on the wall just inside the cabin. He touches Ilya’s elbow.

“The next time I see one, I’ll let them know,” Ilya says. “In the meantime, I don’t think I have to tell you what a storm does to a ship with this many passengers.”

“I’ve weathered my fair share.”

“Not like this one,” Asra says. Beside him, Ilya shudders so deeply Asra feels his aura vibrate, though Asra can’t be sure why.

The captain’s drumming increases. “Changing course isn’t a small matter. I need proof.”

“I understand. I can’t show you the storm until it’s, well, ahead of us, but would a demonstration of my magic do? Nothing dangerous, I promise.”

While he can tell his promises mean little, the captain gives him a long look. “I have to protect my ship, whether that means from you or a storm. One demonstration.”

The ultimatum has his mind turning while they all head out to the deck. The cards have gone silent again, and he can’t afford to waste time waiting for another prediction to come true. He has to hope that with her clear ignorance about magic, any of it will be enough to shock her into listening, even if that’s not ideal.

Thankfully, this late at night, most of the other passengers have cleared the deck. He stops by the railing, contemplating the sea below. She said one demonstration, not one spell.

He can’t resist a flourish to the way he summons orbs of light, a slight spin to their path over the water. He sinks his magic into the water and pulls it into the air in spouts that shoot up above the railing, above the masts. They burst like silent fireworks. The spray bends to greet him while water collapses in a shower of sparks, the orbs remaining to shine on it.

Murmurs behind him make him realize others have gathered to watch, and Asra’s smile drops. He tries to ignore their attention and focus on the captain, who’s fielding someone’s question.

“We’re going to have a bit of a delay,” she says quietly, before hurrying off. The passengers are left staring at Asra, including those he’s been getting to know, without letting them know what he does. The railing behind him doesn’t give him an easy escape.

Ilya applauds loudly enough to draw attention. “And that’s it for tonight’s show, folks! If you liked what you saw, submit your requests for encores to the captain.” He wraps an arm around Asra’s shoulders and drags him away. Once Asra breaks from his stupor, he laughs.

“That was some quick thinking.”

“It’s the only type I do,” Ilya says, looking too proud of that fact. He sobers. “Er, Asra? How that captain sounded—is that how I sound?”

“Usually. Not lately.” He catches the shame on Ilya’s face. “Oh, don’t worry. I never took you that seriously.”

“Uh, I’m glad, I guess?”

Asra nudges him. “You’re too easy to tease. I know you’ve been trying to learn. I appreciate it. Especially putting in a word with the captain—we were almost all in serious trouble.”

“Still plenty of trouble to be had.” The arch of his brow suggests he doesn’t mean the life-or-death kind. “But really, that was, um, a beautiful demonstration. And I’m sorry. For a lot of things, come to think of it.”

“Ilya… Let’s focus on the present, okay?” It’s not that Ilya doesn’t have things to apologize for—both of them do, really, even if they covered some of it when they first reconnected. But he doesn’t want them stuck on that right now, out at sea for who knows how long, with the delay. “The cards aren’t telling me anything else. It’s smooth sailing for now, I think.”

“Oh, good. You know, this ship almost set sail without its lucky charm,” Ilya says.

“Lucky charm? Please. I just happened to be in the right place.”

“Do fortune-tellers believe in coincidence?”

“Coincidence can be plenty magical,” Asra says.


	12. The Shark Tank

The captain gives them a wide berth during the rest of their voyage, to the extent that’s possible. As the ship pulls into port, she approaches them with a curt thank you for protecting the ship, along with an offer of a reward for their service.

“You’d have been really sunk without Asra,” Julian says, his lips twitching.

“I’m just glad everyone arrived safely,” Asra is quick to say.

A crowd has gathered at the docks to watch the ship sail in. Julian starts to greet them as if he knows anyone, but when that crowd and the passengers sandwich him and Asra, Asra presses close to him. Quickly Julian guides him through the throng.

The moment they’re on land proper, without a pack of people keeping them upright, the ground wobbles. Even Asra seems graceless. Julian keeps an arm around his shoulders, not sure which of them is being stabilized.

“If you’re not sick of the water yet, there’s a lovely stretch of beach where we could get our land legs back,” Julian says. “This port is known for its marketplace, but you might want a, uh, less rambunctious place to start.”

Faust wriggles inside Asra’s scarf, making Julian’s arm jump. A voice, high and whispery, comes to him. _Beach!_

Asra laughs. “Faust says she’d never get sick of the water.”

Julian rubs his ear. Sailing must have disoriented him; that kid sounded like they were inside his head. “We can’t disappoint the lady, then, can we?”

The waves seem less treacherous lapping the shore than they did rocking the ship. Asra stops now and then to gather shells or point out crabs while Julian tells him all about Bazeaux’s best sights. Never ravaged by plague and blessed with a string of prudent leaders, it’s the trade hub Vesuvia could have been—or could be someday, under Nadia's guidance. When Julian pauses, Asra is still quiet, kneeling to draw designs in the sand. Julian crouches next to him and scoops up a pile, which he watches sift through his fingers.

“I suppose you made a lot of sandcastles growing up? Pasha loved them so much she tried to build a salt castle once, too.” The beach where they’d been shipwrecked as children never held bad memories for her, so he forced himself to take her there often.

“Did that work?”

“Let’s just say I couldn’t fault her determination.”

That makes Asra crack a smile. He brushes sand off his pants and stands. “Come on, let’s find someplace to sleep beside the beach. That got old when I was about twelve,” Asra says. Though Julian only had to do it a few times before the grandmas took them in, he can imagine.

“Of course, you deserve a warm bed. Especially after all those nights on the ship, hm?”

With all of the city’s distractions—street jugglers and harbor seal statues and guards Julian evades—it’s already dark when they arrive at the Shark Tank. A skeleton of its namesake hangs from the ceiling, making Julian feel a little more at home. Customers there for the inn’s evening entertainment join the lodgers, and Julian recognizes some of the performers setting up instruments in the corner. A woman stands behind the counter, wiping it down with a rag. The firmness with which she does so makes grey curls bounce over her eye patch.

“Camille, my dear, you’re looking spry as ever,” Julian says.

Her one eye darts to him for only a moment. “Flattery won’t pay off your tab.”

A second woman touches Camille’s shoulder with a brown, wrinkled hand, accented at the wrist with a coral bracelet. “Aw, but he brought a friend.”

“That means he pays more,” Camille says. Her attention turns to Asra, who’s been standing awkwardly beside Julian.

“Ah, this is Asra. We’re, er, traveling together. Asra, Camille and her lovely wife, Mira, who makes the best food in town.”

“Flattering her won’t pay it off, either.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Asra,” Mira says. She turns to Julian. “You’ll be playing with the band, won’t you?”

“Of course, of course, whatever you need me to do.”

“I’m looking forward to that food,” Asra says while Mira hands him a key, a glint in her eye.

Knowing Asra, Julian doesn’t bother asking for separate beds. He’s kept close, anyway, ever since Asra asked to be woken if necessary. If Julian’s wrong, he’ll sleep on the floor.

But when they enter their room, two skinny beds stand in front of them. He processes that while Asra squeezes past him and throws open the curtains. “Check out this view. Your friends are pretty generous,” Asra says. “Mira and… Camille, was it?”

“Oh, uh, yes they are. And yes, they are.” It is a more spacious room than he’d have gotten by himself, with a sturdy writing desk against the wall. Asra isn’t wrong about the view, either. From this floor, they can see over the market, lit with multi-colored lights, to the harbor beyond.

Asra plops his bag down on the nearest bed, staring between them. Idly Julian wonders how often Asra has seen multiple beds in one place. Julian hurries to claim the other one.

The Shark Tank has already started serving supper, meaning Julian has to scramble to set up with the band. It’s been too long since he held a vielle. With it in his hands, it’s hard not to feel a little more at ease with himself. He winces at the first clumsy notes, but once he’s tuned the vielle and fallen into a rhythm with the others, he forgets about everything besides their collective sound and the bow gliding against the strings.

Clapping draws his attention to the crowd. He exchanges looks with Asra, who’s settled down with a bowl of food. The intent way Asra is watching makes him fumble. Julian holds his gaze as he rebounds, adding more of a flourish to his movements, which clearly makes Asra stifle laughter. The glow of performing intensifies.

As a few of the guests begin to dance, Julian remembers the downside of playing. Asra can dance up a storm—with a pang, Julian remembers late nights in the library, moving together to stay awake—but certainly won’t do it alone in a room full of strangers.

Like he hears Julian’s thoughts as a dare, Asra stands, slow and deliberate. His body begins to twist with the movements of Julian’s fingers, limbs and hips as fluid as water, igniting a fire inside Julian. Though Asra follows the sounds, the loose way he spins makes it clear he’s nobody’s puppet. Julian would keep playing all night if it served Asra’s flow.

Once the set ends, Asra slips into his seat and resumes eating like nothing happened. One of the other performers claps Julian’s back. “What was that, Jules? You kept spacing out. When was the last time you even played?”

“It’s always a pretty face with him,” another cracks.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says without any real regret.

* * *

The next day sees Julian gesticulating wildly on the way out of the theater, discussing the finer points of the performance he and Asra just saw. It was a local classic, a fusion of stories carried over the sea, and the lead actor brought new flair to their role.

“Theater is always evolving, you see? The legends that play draws from are as old as time, but each viewing is a unique—”

Asra tugs at Julian’s coat before he can walk into a cart. Pausing to take stock of their surroundings, he spies neglected stalls at the market’s edge. There they find a decorated notebook and fancy writing quills for Nadia. “So she can write Pasha love poetry,” Julian says with a grin.

“Nadi would be great at that. I was thinking she might like to journal, though. Commit memories to parchment.” Asra sobers. “Knowing her, she’ll write down plans to improve Vesuvia.”

Julian gestures to the starry pattern at the top of the pages. “At least she can’t use it for official business.”

A child’s cry catches his attention. They’re huddled in the shade, hugging their knees. He crouches next to them and learns they’ve been separated from their mother. The pain on Asra’s face mirrors theirs.

“We’ll find her, don’t worry,” Julian says, as much to him as to the child. Asra offers to search while Julian stays. At his questions and jokes, the child slowly unfurls, though they keep their arms around themselves.

The next stall over carries a collection of crafted goods. Julian buys the child a doll, thinking they’ll want something to hold—a correct guess, based on the way they clutch it, almost like he clung to the infant Pasha after being stranded.

They’re laughing at one of his stories when Asra returns with the mother, who rushes to take the child in her arms. With tearful gratitude, the family leaves.

“Thank you,” Asra says in a voice that makes Julian squeeze his hand.

“Thank _you_. You were the one who found her.”

“Yeah, but people in a situation like that need someone.”

Like the day that they walked along the canal, Julian doesn’t know what to say or do, other than to not let go.

They continue strolling at the market’s edge. Scarves in every color catch Julian’s eye. Before he can point them out, he spots the telltale orange horizon.

“I wish we could look around more, but I need to be back in time to perform. That tab can’t get any higher,” Julian says.

“I can foot some of it, you know. I have—let’s see—some jewelry I found on the beach, dried herbs, lizard feet…”

“No, it’s okay,” Julian says quickly. “I like performing, brings me back to some good old days. I’m just sorry we can’t shop more, or dine together, or, ah, whatever you’d rather be doing.”

“I like hearing you perform. I didn’t know you could play like that before last night.”

Julian refrains from mentioning how out of practice he is. “If you thought that was impressive, wait until you hear me tonight.”

* * *

To Julian’s embarrassment, his playing isn’t any better than the night before, owing partly to how much he’s overthinking it. It’s hard to forget Asra is watching him. Asra still seems entertained—dare he think, at moments, entranced—and claps with equal enthusiasm whenever anyone else does, and at some times that they don’t. Julian has been running on _fake it ‘til they think you made it_ for long enough not to mention his flops afterward.

Back in the room, Asra plops down on Julian’s bed. Julian’s mind gets ahead of him before he remembers Asra has probably never claimed anything, let alone a place to sleep. Even his pillow pile at the library used to migrate.

A tapping sound at the window makes Julian let Malak in. He swoops around before dropping a ring in front of Asra.

“Malak! Where did that come from?” Julian asks. Ignoring him, Malak nudges the ring toward Asra, who laughs and puts it on.

“Thank you, Malak,” he says, the ring glinting against Malak’s dark feathers as he strokes the raven. “Did you go shopping for me, since we didn’t have much time?”

He looks so charmed that Julian doesn’t point out Malak absolutely did not buy it. “Look at that, it’s even a good fit.”

Long after he’s shooed Malak outside and settled into the bed Asra recently used, he tosses and turns. It’s silly—Asra is just across the room, and if the noise of the marketplace doesn’t wake him by morning, Julian can do it himself. As far as he knows, Asra hasn’t even had another close call with that trance coma business.

Unless he has, and Julian didn’t recognize it because he still barely understands magic, or Asra doesn’t trust him enough to say. Why should he? Julian has already hurt him, to say nothing of everything else he’s done. The sea travel was unnecessarily dangerous; there was a perfectly good land route. It must have bored Asra. The city’s too full of crowds, and he’s stuck following Julian’s schedule because Julian never pays anything off. He’s probably having a terrible time, even if he’s too polite to say so; he’s just keeping Julian around in case someone needs to wake him up, because he might be in danger…

Julian can’t account for how or when he drifts off.


	13. A Campfire in a Swamp

The only color in most of Julian’s dreams is red. Red flames, red beetles, red blood. Even his conscious imagination would never have cooked up the landscape before him, magenta sand and purple water under a rainbow sky. Seashells decorate a sandcastle that upon closer inspection is flecked with salt. A skittering blue crab leads his gaze over to a pond, where Asra kneels, dipping his hand in the water.

Well, that explains it. Things are always more fanciful with Asra around. When he spots Julian, he freezes, water dripping through his fingers.

“Ilya? What are you doing here?”

“Here I was about to ask you the same thing. What I’m doing here, I mean. Wherever this is.” As he approaches Asra, his feet feel no friction from the sand. “Are we really here?”

“Yes and no. Our bodies are back at the inn, but you’re not making this up, if that’s what you mean.”

“Wonderful. I was getting sick of staying in my body.” The dry joke doesn’t ease the way Asra is worrying at his lip. “So, uh, where are we?”

“You’ve had a taste of the other realms,” Asra says.

“Like the Hanged Man’s realm? Then who does this one belong to?”

“Me. It’s not really a realm in that sense—it’s a gate, deep inside my mind. I could get to some of those realms from here, but this place is just mine. You’re… not supposed to be here.”

As little sense as any of that makes, Julian can tell it’s personal. “Oh, I’m uh, sorry for intruding then. I’ll just show myself out,” he says, before remembering he doesn’t know how.

“I’m not saying I mind. I just don’t understand how you’re here. I don’t know if it happened in that pocket space or what, but our magic must have melded somehow. Either that, or…”

Rather than ask him to continue, Julian asks, “Our magic? I don’t have magic.”

“Of course you do. Everyone does. Most people just find it hard to use.”

As much as he’s been trying to overcome his distrust of magic, the thought has Julian looking down at himself, unsettled by whatever lies beneath his skin. Even knowing human innards better than he should, this has never come up.

“What is that?” Asra asks. Julian follows his gaze to what looks like a swamp in the distance, a drab spot in the colorful landscape. Despite the instinct to ask how he would know, Julian does have an answer.

“It looks a little like the Hanged Man’s realm. Does your, uh, gate lead there?”

“No, definitely not. This place just changes a lot. And there’s never been another person in here before.” A sly look comes over his face as he considers Julian. “Want to explore?”

“Finally, you’re speaking my language.”

“You have to follow my lead though,” Asra says, sobering. “No wandering onto dark paths alone. There’s no telling what could happen.” He holds out a hand that Julian takes. Rather than a physical pressure, Julian gets the impression of anticipation.

As they approach the swamp, he realizes it’s not quite like the Hanged Man’s realm—no symbolic objects frozen in time, no menacing thorn-covered vines. It’s more like the swamps of his memories, and it almost makes him feel at home, even as Asra guides him around the darkest shadows and deepest muck. A crocodile lurks in a maze of mangrove roots, its glittering purple hide failing to camouflage it.

Amidst all the dampness, they come across a clearing with a little island, where a campfire crackles. They wade through the swamp, which sucks at Julian’s boots, though they emerge completely dry.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a fire in here,” Asra says, his eyes wide with its flickering reflection.

“Because your element is water, right?” It relieves Julian to put some pieces together, even about something so basic. “At least the swamp’s appropriate.”

“It’s murkier than usual, but that’s one way of looking at it. This warm spot at the center is what draws me in, though.”

Embarrassment and something Julian doesn’t have time to identify flow to him before Asra releases his hand. Settling on a log, Asra pats the space beside him. Julian joins him, already missing the contact; it’s like his feelings have dulled without that extra layer buzzing on top of them. It leaves room in his mind to ponder his situation.

“You had another theory about how I’m here?” Julian asks.

“Oh. That.” Asra fiddles with his new ring. “Magic is about manifesting wishes.”

“You’ve said as much.”

“Maybe you wanted to come here so badly you appeared, or I… I wanted you here. Something like that.”

“I didn’t even know this place existed. Or, uh, kind of exists.” Julian follows that to its conclusion and opens his mouth. Asra covers it with a finger.

“Don’t. I… I know.”

Julian wants to say he doesn’t, but he can feel it through the point of contact. He can’t feel Asra’s skin, or the ring’s metal. Instead, there’s a brush of longing and loneliness, fondness and need—and on top of it all, a layer of aching reservation.

Asra must be able to feel it all from him, too. The embarrassment on Asra’s face transforms into curiosity as his finger follows a searching path around Julian’s lips. Despite the fire, Julian shivers.

“Asra,” he manages, leaning into the touch, the feeling. It’s enough to make him drunk. He edges closer while Asra traces his jaw and cheek, projecting to Asra that he can map all of Julian, if he wants.

Asra pulls away, and Julian lets out a shameful sound. “This place is unstable enough as it is. You should probably return to your body now,” Asra says, his tone full of regret.

“Oh. Of, of course. But will you be all right? Is this the place you got stuck before? I don’t care if it’s dangerous, if you want me here, if you need me, I—”

“Don’t. Please.”

Julian doesn’t need to touch Asra to feel the tension radiating off of him, a hundred conflicting emotions. The force of it almost makes Julian flinch.

“You should care,” Asra says, his tone so much more measured than everything he’s projecting. “But you don’t need to worry. I’ll see you back at the inn.”

All Julian sees as the swamp fades is a familiar glowing mark.

He bolts awake at the inn, covered in sweat. Asra is in the other bed, his back toward Julian, his body rising and falling with regular breaths. Just a dream. A bizarre dream, much nicer than his usual nightmares, but more surreal.

Still, his chest aches—no, not an ache, a sharp pain. By the time he recognizes it as panic, he’s already pulling on his boots with shaking hands.

Despite everything, he hasn’t stopped hoping. Hoping for things he can’t have, isn’t owed, doesn’t deserve. Rotten, awful, stupid. Something, he doesn’t know what but _something_ that must come from him feels wrong, wrong, wrong.

He breathes heavily as he flies from the room, down the stairs, and out of the inn.


	14. Slippery Boy

For a while after he returns to his body, Asra keeps his eyes closed and his breathing measured. Sunlight streams through the windows by the time he gets up. There’s no sign of Ilya except his belongings haphazardly placed around the room. Asra invites Faust to coil around his arm, finding the pressure comforting. “We’d better see where Ilya has run off to now, huh?”

_Slippery boy_.

Though he chuckles, he can’t escape the sense that something is wrong. Maybe it’s just the fact that Ilya showed up in his gate. He tries not to think about that as he heads downstairs.

“I might have seen a black and red blur,” Mira says when he asks. “He came through bright and early.”

“If you weren’t here, I’d assume he skipped town,” Camille adds. “Actually, that’s still not out of the question.”

“Camille.”

Asra thanks them and sinks into a chair. Mira brings him stuffed flatbreads and a bubbly drink with a sympathetic look he hates. No, that’s not fair; it isn’t her, it’s the dread building in his gut, not helped by their assumptions. How many times has Ilya come through their inn, leaving without a word when trouble finds him, or he finds it? How many cities, how many people has he left because he almost had something good? There’s only one person Asra would never, ever give another chance to, but he’s worried now that that’s naïve.

Maybe he was too careless. Maybe his magic or his feelings or both at once scared off Ilya for good.

He takes a deep breath. Ilya left his things in the room. There’s no use theorizing.

For a while, he nurses his breakfast, worrying they’ll miss each other if he leaves. But when enough time passes for Faust to get wriggly, he sets out.

Malak nearly careens into him. The raven screeches, looping around him, refusing Asra’s attempts to catch or soothe him. Faust pokes up to interpret.

_Slippery boy_ , she repeats with more urgency. Asra goes cold.

“What happened? Where is he?”

_Trouble_.

Without elucidating, Malak shoots off, and Asra follows with his coat and scarves flapping. He weaves through the crowd of morning shoppers, ignoring shopkeepers who yell about bargains and customers he narrowly avoids slamming into. If he weren’t trying to keep sight of the raven, he would have taken a path around, but Malak isn’t thinking about the crowd, just the straightest route to Ilya.

Finally they take a turn off the beaten path, and Asra slows to get his bearings. They’re close to the docks, in between ramshackle buildings. He visualizes a shadow masking him as he casts a spell to blend in. It covers him just in time to find Ilya in an alley, his back to the wall, surrounded by three people with matching jackets.

Asra ducks behind a stack of crates. Red streaks down the side of Ilya’s face. Between the distance and his pounding ears, Asra can only hear snippets of conversation.

_Showing his face so soon._

_Other ports must’ve chased him out already._

Asra begins mouthing the words to a spell. One of Ilya’s hands gestures wildly while the other creeps toward his boot. The others must notice, as one swings a fist at his face.

Asra summons a shield in time for the fist to bounce off. The attacker stumbles back. They shout a confused curse, and another tries with the same outcome, strengthening Asra’s shield. The third’s swing sends them flying against the opposite wall.

“Since when the hell are you a witch?” one shouts. Ilya looks as confused as they do, but by the time the three are collecting themselves, he seems to have caught on. He holds up his hands, waggling his fingers with a sick grin. Whatever he says makes the trio bolt. With the coast clear, he makes a run for the alley entrance, then presses against a wall to catch his breath.

“Ilya!” Asra emerges and hurries to him. Even though the spell must have given him away, Ilya still seems shocked to see him.

“Asra, I—what are you doing here?” Malak answers for him by swooping in and landing on Ilya’s shoulder, poking near his wound.

“Hold still,” Asra says. Malak hops down to make room for Asra to cradle Ilya’s jaw. His chin tucks down compliantly while Asra searches for the source of the blood. As his fingers brush against a wound on Ilya’s temple, a moan escapes Ilya’s lips. He bites the bottom lip, a familiar look in his eye, and Asra sucks in a breath.

“I’m going to heal this with a spell, okay? I might not be strong enough to completely heal it, but I think I can stop the bleeding. And then we’ll get somewhere safe.”

“Don’t.” Ilya snaps away from Asra’s touch.

“Ilya, it’s all right, I—”

“Don’t bother. I don’t deserve it.”

“This is no time to be dramatic. We shouldn’t hang around here much longer, and you can’t afford head wounds anymore.”

“It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t need you to rescue me from old mistakes, let alone heal me. I’m the doctor, here, dammit.”

“And would you let someone’s head bleed out, just because they told you to? Or leave them to be ganged up on? You’d do the same for me. You _did_ save me. Last time, it was you Malak summoned.”

That makes Ilya meet his gaze again, startled and then rueful. “You asked me to make sure you woke up, after that, and I just left. I’m sorry. You deserve someone who—”

“Oh, Ilya, you don’t get it. Even asleep, you came to me when I needed you. I wasn’t going to stay there, in another realm, when you’re here.”

The bewilderment on Ilya’s face is more than Asra can account for. He realizes his mistake when Ilya whispers, “That really happened?”

“You didn’t—didn’t you…” Asra’s face flames.

“I thought it must have been a dream.”

“I can see why.” Asra’s hands tremble by Ilya’s ears. “We can sort it out later. I still need to heal you. Please.”

This time, Ilya submits to Asra’s magic, shivering as Asra imagines skin stitching together to close the wound. Even with Ilya’s pact broken, his body drinks up the healing. Still, Asra isn’t used to such powerful mending magic, and it leaves him drained. He can’t end the pain, not that Ilya probably minds. His thumb smears blood across Ilya’s cheek in an attempt to wipe it away.

Ilya is almost putty now, sliding further down the wall. He steadies himself with his hands on Asra’s waist. Asra’s free hand goes to his shoulder, pressing it against the wall to hold him up.

“Asra—”

Faust slides against Asra’s arm, making him jolt. “Faust,” he sputters. “I, I forgot I had her.”

“Oh. Oh. Well, we uh, we better get her someplace safe, then.”

Asra backs away, looping an arm around Ilya when he wobbles. Ilya tries to prove he can walk upright on his own, but seeming more shaken than anything, he ends up leaning into the support.

“I could have taken those goons in a one-on-one fight,” Ilya mumbles. “Hell, three at once, if they hadn’t gotten the drop on me. But, um, thank you. You really saved me. Did you see the looks on their faces? They’re not going to sleep for a week.”

“I can imagine. What actually happened?”

“I was looking for this stand we passed earlier with these scarves I was sure you’d like, but I didn’t realize how close I got to an old haunt. I didn’t find the scarves, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Ilya, I don’t care about that right now. How did you end up in a fight?”

“I may have used pirate money last time I came through here. Not on any decent folks, mind you—that’s how I, er, also racked up some tabs. Though, to be honest, they might have been mad about something else I forgot about.”

Despite himself, Asra can’t help but be amused. “I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

* * *

The innkeepers react little to Ilya bursting in looking a mess, other than to ask if Asra needs help cleaning him up. Letting Faust down to hunt, Asra says no, then thinks better of it and asks for a cloth and cup.

“What’ll it be? Something hard?”

“What? Oh, no. Just a cup.”

Camille follows the request, passing him a shot glass of amber liquid alongside it. With his thanks, Asra follows Ilya, who already left for their room.

He finds Ilya sitting on the bed, his coats on the floor and a hand pressed to his wound. Asra gives him the shot glass and uses a spell to fill the empty cup with water before settling next to him.

“You know, you could’ve asked them for water,” Ilya says after he’s knocked back the shot.

That hadn’t occurred to Asra. “No reason for them to waste theirs.” He dampens the cloth and gently lifts Ilya’s hand away. The loss of contact with his wound makes Ilya groan. “I know you enjoy it, but there are safer ways than getting head wounds from alley fights.”

He didn’t mean to suggest anything, but he can’t miss how Ilya’s skin is red all the way to his ears, even after Asra washes the blood away. He steels himself before removing the eye patch. _It’s healed, he’s fine_. There’s no resistance when he tilts Ilya’s chin with a light touch, inspecting his work, and Ilya gives him that _look_ again. Heat builds inside Asra. _Not now_.

Miraculously, he keeps his voice steady. “You’re the doctor. Tell me how else I should be treating this. Are you dizzy? Is, hm, is everything too loud?”

“No, no. Asra—”

“Ilya. I need to make sure you’re safe, first. Does anything else hurt?”

“No. Asra, I—”

“ _Ilya_. I need you to be safe.” All hope of sounding collected vanishes. “Do you understand?”

Ilya gives him a long, helpless look. “No.”

“No? I thought you—the swamp?” It’s the most coherent thought he can manage. The reference makes Ilya’s eyes go wide, if anything looking more confused.

“I don’t understand that either.”

Asra’s heart pounds as he fumbles for speech. He’s still worn out from draining his magic, and the last time he put his feelings for someone into words, he almost broke Carrow. “I’m not sure I can explain this right now.”

“Then don’t,” Ilya whispers, intense and pleading.

The invitation behind it is clear. Not everything Asra is experiencing can be expressed so simply, but he can give Ilya, give _them_ , this much. He cradles Ilya’s face, easily pulling it down to his level before tilting it. “Would you rather I show you?”

“Yes. Yes, please, I— _oh_.”

He meets Ilya’s mouth harder than he means to, driven by desperation and fire and flesh. Ilya is as enthusiastic as ever, his hands clinging to the back of Asra’s shirt, his breath hitching when Asra bites his lip. As Asra moves to his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, Ilya exclaims encouragement and pleas in equal measure. Asra tries to follow Ilya’s desire for more, for marks, even though part of him wants to go slow, to be tender. His hands press against Ilya’s chest, and Ilya falls back on the bed, still clinging.

Asra lifts his head to admire the view, Ilya mussed and needy beneath him—and freezes.

All he can see is a red sclera. Red, in danger, dying. He can’t remember where they are, or what they’re doing, or if Ilya is going to be all right.

“Asra? Asra! What’s wrong?”

The rest of Ilya’s face comes into his vision, though distant, like he’s looking through water. Asra’s barely breathing, he realizes. His arms are tense against Ilya’s torso, his elbows digging in. He rolls off, and Ilya props himself up on his side, one arm hovering over Asra.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says. “Was that bad? Wrong? Too much?”

“No. No, it wasn’t you.” Asra tries to focus on his breaths, but Ilya is still there, poised to ask more questions. Asra scoots toward him, prompting Ilya’s arm to settle around him. He rests his cheek against Ilya’s chest, listening to his heart race. “Sorry, can we just stay like this?”

“Of course.” Ilya adjusts his hold. “Is this all right?”

“Yeah.” He traces designs against Ilya’s back, magical symbols he knows by heart, until he feels a little less helpless. “Too bad, I liked where that was headed.”

“Oho? Head there with me anytime.” Ilya’s suggestive tone drops. “Er, if you want to.”

“Believe me, I do. I just can’t right now.”

“That’s perfectly fine.” He rubs Asra’s back. “Can I, uh, get you anything? Water? More pillows?”

“Just this. How’s your wound?” He’d almost forgotten about it, between his desires and his worries about a long-healed illness.

“Oh, this lovely and mysterious doctor fixed it up for me, it was like magic.”

“Like magic?” Asra says with fake horror. “How suspicious.”

“I don’t know, I’m considering asking them for help with my patients. You know, if I can track them down; I’m afraid it was like two ships passing in the night.”

Asra giggles. “What a conundrum.” Lifting his head, he finds a mark he left and kisses it. “Speaking of tracking people down, the innkeepers thought you’d skipped town.”

“Skipped town? Oh my god, no, I might have panicked a little but I would never, not with you so far from home.”

“I’d find my way back,” Asra says carefully.

“I know you’re an experienced traveler, I just—I’d never do that to you. Abandon you like that. At least, not again.”

Asra has to risk looking Ilya in the eye to study him. Now that he’s calmed down, the sclera doesn’t affect him as much. He searches for sincerity. “Promise?”

Ilya’s throat bobs, but he holds Asra’s gaze. “I promise.”

“Then I do, too.”

“What?”

“I won’t abandon you, either.”

That seems to scare Ilya more than his own dedication. “Er, that’s nice. I mean, that’s really nice. I mean—”

“It’s fine, Ilya. I just wanted you to know.” He hides his face again, this time in the crook of Ilya’s neck, flush against his pulse. Gradually, Ilya’s hold tightens.


	15. In Sync

Though he used to complain about it, Julian has always envied Asra’s ability to fall asleep at any time, even in worse places than Julian’s arms—if there are worse. His head is throbbing too hard for him to sleep. It’s past the point of sharp, pleasurable pain, though hoping for more of that was presumptuous.

His foot bounces. It’s the most he can do to relieve his restless energy, as much as he thinks of slinking downstairs. He’s in too deep for that now, even if he could disentangle himself without waking Asra.

He promised. _They_ promised.

That makes him panic more than anything, because god, it’s only right for him to dedicate himself to Asra after everything, but after _everything_ , Asra shouldn’t do the same.

Fluff tickles his chin as Asra stirs. Asra separates from him to stretch, not that there’s much room in the narrow bed. He glances out the window. “Did I sleep all day? Sorry. We still need to shop.”

“The evening’s young,” Julian says, itching for some noise and fresh air.

“You’re supposed to perform, aren’t you?”

“Oh, right.”

Asra brushes back Julian’s bangs. “How’s your head? The innkeepers saw you bleeding, they’ll understand. I know I have something to pay for the room tonight.”

“No, no, I’ve performed while still bleeding, it’s fine.”

“If you’re sure. I’ll join you later; I have some things to sort out,” Asra says. Julian leaves before either of them can change their mind.

Rather than set up with the band, Julian makes a beeline for the bar. Upon receiving a frothy tankard, he knocks it against the air in a toast with himself before drinking deeply. The liquid warms his throat, not harsh enough for his liking. It can’t scrape away the memory of Asra’s horrified face when he looked down at Julian. Whatever that magic swamp had fooled Julian to believe wasn’t true. Asra can’t have meant to do that, not again—Julian’s impulsiveness must have rubbed off on him, warped him somehow. Hurt him.

He slams down the empty tankard. “A couple more, please—don’t you have anything harder?”

Camille only takes the tankard away. “I’m cutting you off.”

“After one drink? Aw, I know I haven’t started playing yet, but—”

“And you won’t tonight, if you keep drinking. You’ll scare away the customers.”

Mira passes him a tray bearing two steaming bowls of fish stew fragrant with coconut. The scent reminds him of Carrow’s favorite Prakran dishes, stirring him from his brooding. “Your companion’s upstairs, isn’t he?” she asks. “Bring him something for his belly before you get too deep in your cups.” His ears must be pink as he accepts.

The moment he sees Asra, he beams. “Did you miss me? Good news, I found dinner, you can have all the flatbread if you want—Asra?”

He sets down the tray and waves a hand in front of Asra’s face. He’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, posture relaxed but eyes glassy, and doesn’t react. All of Julian’s relief at the sight of him flees. “Asra? Are you all right? Can you hear me? Are you stuck again?”

_Trancing_.

Julian swivels his head. “Who’s there?”

_Me!_

He looks down, only seeing Faust coiled beside Asra. She waves her head. That blow to the head must have addled him after all; for a second, he thought—

_Squeezy friend._

He flinches. “No, no squeezing, please.” She sticks her tongue out at him but doesn’t make another move.

“If you insist.” Asra’s voice startles Julian; he hadn’t noticed Asra come to. Though Asra seems amused, he doesn’t look Julian in the eye.

“Not you. Okay, please don’t laugh—actually, you can laugh if you want—does Faust talk?”

“Of course.” The matter of fact tone messes with Julian more than teasing would have. “What, did you hear her?”

“Must’ve gotten my hundredth concussion, that’s all.”

Asra turns his attention to Faust. “No, she says you were having a nice chat.” He gives her a fond scritch. “You can understand Malak, can’t you? So can she.”

“Yes, but it’s not like Malak speaks in words. We’re just in sync.” Julian shifts uncomfortably. While he’s gained some sense of what that means, he can’t process it yet. “But that doesn’t explain why I can hear Faust.”

_Love an Asra_.

Julian sputters. Asra turns red. “Oh, c’mon, Faust,” he mumbles. “Actually, I have an idea about that. I was meeting with The Magician just now.”

“You can just do that? You don’t have to die or anything? Oh, right. Magician. Carry on.”

“They don’t like giving clear answers, but they seemed to agree you and I attuned our magic in that pocket space. Basically, our auras harmonized. That might have been why you could join me in my gate. They thought I was missing a bigger picture, though.”

“Let me guess, they didn’t feel like painting that for you.”

“No. I’m not surprised, though. I’ve been avoiding a lot of things for a while now.”

Watching Asra struggle, Julian narrowly avoids making a snide remark. It’s not like he’s any better. 

“I can’t anymore, though, and I can’t avoid sharing this with you,” Asra continues. “I thought it was just my own issue, but if I’m summoning you into other realms, that involves you.” Asra places his palm over his heart. “The truth is, I’m not surprised I can do that. You weren’t the only one who made a pact. I’ve been able to open doors to other worlds for years—and to push people through them.”

His tone goes cold. Ice travels up Julian’s spine, less at Asra’s power and more at what he must have been through to gain it. He tries to stay focused. “So why were you so confused before?”

“Because I did it without meaning to. I only would have forced someone through a gate as a last resort. But the Magician reminded me even subconscious feelings can manifest with great consequences.”

_Maybe I wanted you here_ , he had said. Julian bends toward him.

Faust slithers off the bed, making room for Julian to sit. Again avoiding his eye, Asra’s gaze meanders along the exposed skin of Julian’s neck and chest. His thumb caresses a hickey.

“Don’t heal it,” Julian says. It comes out more pleading than he means it to. Asra always used to erase any cuts or bruises he left and some he didn’t, leaving Julian without mementos.

“All right, I won’t. People are going to see, though, with how little you button up your shirt.”

“Oh, I hope they do, darling.”

“If you’re trying to show off, we can do better than that.”

“By all means.” Julian halts halfway to reaching for him. “Uh. Were you about to talk about our magic problems, or what happened earlier, or something?”

“Oh. That. That was silly.”

“It wasn’t silly. You looked like you’d seen a ghost,” Julian says. Asra shudders. “Have I been pushing too much?”

“No, it’s not that. Um.” He touches the skin by Julian’s eye. “It was this.”

“This? Oh.” He’d forgotten it was exposed. “It hasn’t been contagious in years, dear, don’t worry.”

“I know. I said it was silly. It’s not that I think you’re sick, or even that it looks bad—you could stand to wear more red, if anything. It’s just…” Asra gestures at nothing. “Memories.”

Julian begins searching for his eye patch. “Say no more. I understand completely.” The sight of a plagued Asra would have freaked him out, too, but he hates to have reminded Asra of death in a moment like that.

Asra grabs his wrist. “Wait, Ilya. Just because I keep hiding doesn’t mean you should have to.”

“Oh, but it’s what I’m good at. And, uh, this is the least I can do to make up for upsetting you.”

Again Asra brings both hands up to Julian’s head. “Ilya. Look at me.” Goosebumps flare up as he follows the quiet command. Asra searches his face for a long moment before kissing the corner of his eye, and then the corner of his mouth. “See? It’s fine.”

Julian doesn’t know what to do with the feather-light touches. He’s stock-still, though Asra’s hold isn’t firm. When his body realizes it’s not anticipating anything, it begins to relax. “Yes,” he says. “Thanks.”

* * *

They push the beds together without ceremony. “Maybe now I won’t summon you from your body just to see you,” Asra mumbles. It sounds like it’s meant as a joke, but he looks so wistful that Julian pulls him into a hug and speaks into his hair.

“I don’t mind if you do.”

If he’s honest, it gives him pleasant chills to think that Asra can do that, that there’s a way for him to follow Asra to another realm—even to one deep inside him, a place he’s never taken anyone.


	16. Merrymaking

The open-air market sprawls along the harbor, hosting local fishmongers along with merchants from all over the world. The smell of seafood, the sight of trinkets from places he’s been, and the yelling of merchants over the crowd provide plenty to keep Julian out of his head. He eyes some Prakran silks. “Hopefully I can find those scarves. Or other clothes you’d like. Maybe some jewelry? There’s a district somewhere around here a lot of magic types frequent. I, uh, obviously can’t speak for it, but there might be something there you’d like.”

“Are you planning on spending the whole day spoiling me?” Asra asks.

“Why not? I’ve been getting away with not lightening my purse. No time like the present, eh?” He’s glowing in a way he hasn’t in a while, a way that means he’ll either spend a lot of money or do something else impulsive. It might be the bustle of the market in the morning sun, but it’s probably strolling with Asra on his arm. He’d twirl him around, if there were room.

The evening he asked Mazelinka if he’d invited Asra on a date seems like a lifetime ago. There’s no doubt now, or at least, as little doubt as Julian has about anything. That’s what they agreed on that morning, if his memory isn’t fooling him.

He wants to coast on this feeling, not think about it. He sidesteps some playing children, flips a coin to a beggar, and follows his nose to a stand of thin pancakes folded around jam, where he buys more than either of them can eat.

Asra makes a valiant effort. “Ooh, Ilya, why didn’t you pick something that can go in my bag? If I make myself sick, you’ll have to carry me the rest of the way.”

“If that’s a challenge, I live to serve.”

“I might pick you up on that if we find more things to try.”

“Wouldn’t I be picking you up?”

Ignoring the pun, Asra turns to give the last pancake away to a child.

They continue on to an area heavy with clothes merchants. Julian is so caught up in trying to find scarves that he loses Asra. Panic creeps in as he imagines Asra scared or hurt in the crowd—he was doing well with it, too.

Doubling back, Julian finds Asra at a clothing booth, seeming enraptured. It’s not the one Julian was looking for, but he can see why the colorful, draping fabrics caught Asra’s attention. Asra picks up a lilac skirt and a matching shawl with beads dangling along the edge. Admiring them almost makes him go cross-eyed. He shakes out of it when Julian suggests he try it on.

Julian starts to speak to the salesperson, but he trails off midsentence when Asra emerges from behind the screen. The clothes sway with his movements, and the color against his white shirt and copper skin brings out the purple in his eyes and the shadows in his hair. The salesperson seizes the opportunity to tell him how well it suits him, attention that Asra doesn’t seem to have anticipated. Julian cuts the salesperson off with a handful of various currencies.

“Good thing it’s comfortable,” Asra says as they step out. “Otherwise you’d have to ask for a refund.”

“Never. It was worth it just to see you looking so lovely.”

Asra seems pleased. This time Julian can’t resist spinning him, his feet dangling and skirt twirling. To his delight, Asra laughs. He takes Julian’s arm again, his other hand clutching his shawl, and seems fortified by the new armor as they resume weaving through the crowd.

Julian filters a smattering of languages from the merchants trying to reach all the people coming through. Since it’s not uncommon for Asra to smile absently while Julian chats people up, it’s a while before it occurs to him that switching between languages is leaving Asra behind.

“With all the traveling you do, I’m surprised you don’t know more of them,” Julian says.

“I don’t usually stay in one place long enough.” Or speak with enough people, Julian would assume. Something wistful is transforming Asra’s features, and Julian nudges him before it can take hold.

“Shall we find that district for magical sorts?”

Asra guides him to it, seeming to find it by intuition alone. It’s nestled deep in the marketplace, with a stack of rugs guarding it from average foot traffic. Asra seems to breathe a little easier in the more open space. Among the fortune-tellers’ tents are stalls with dried herbs hanging from the frames. Crystals, incense, and the occasional bat wing comprise much of the wares that Julian recognizes. He isn’t sure he wants to identify the things he doesn’t.

Asra takes the lead, unhurriedly examining everything with a keen eye. He sniffs a knobby root. “Your friend would like this.”

“Which friend, now?” Julian asks.

“The one with the chickens.”

“Mazelinka? Why?”

“She’s a magic user. She makes sleeping potions out of stuff like this, right?”

“She’s a _what_?”

“Oh, Ilya. Did you never notice?”

The only secret ingredient he noticed in her soup was a Nevivon grandmother’s love. It shouldn’t unsettle him. Asra does magic, and Julian loves Asra. And he loves Mazelinka, so it shouldn’t be—it’s not a problem. But why didn’t she say anything?

The look Asra gives him when he asks this makes Julian rub his neck. Whether he was that intolerant or just unobservant, it doesn’t make him feel better. “You said she’d like this? We should get it for her. That is, I should get it for her.”

“ _We_ should get it.” Asra does so while Julian taps his foot.

“Is there something else around here that she, that you think she’d like?”

Asra points out various potion ingredients, some of which Julian uses for medicines or thought of as old folk remedies. He can’t help wondering what the difference is between a potion and one of his solutions. For now, he only stocks up on Asra’s recommendations.

“We do have to fit all this in our luggage,” Asra says.

“Mazelinka fit me in a crate on a pirate ship, once. I’ll never be able to repay her.”

Even after Julian is done, Asra examines what feels like every inch of the street without making any move to leave. Finally, he admits he’s looking for souvenirs for his parents. “I think my mom still likes chalices, but what if I’m wrong?

Julian adjusts Asra’s shawl. “You don’t have to explain. Pasha grew up so much since I’d last seen her. But you know, I’m pretty sure she could give me a pile of dirt and I’d weep.”

Asra snorts. “That’s not so far off. As a child, I could just give them any old rock or feather I found. I never realized how hard my dad is to shop for. What do you get someone who can make anything?”

Before, Julian would have scoffed at the subject of alchemy, but with the lines already blurring between what he and Asra do, he stays on track. Nonetheless, his suggestions don’t stick. He can recognize Asra spiraling and steers them toward the main market, where Asra settles on a couple of books, one on the history of gold and one on oceanic mysteries.

A crowd around a stall grabs their attention. As a promotion, a jeweler is giving away a gold necklace to the winner of a festival game—throwing balls to knock down cups. They watch a few people attempt it to no avail.

“That’s a rigged setup if I’ve ever seen one,” Julian comments. “There’s no way they’d be giving away something that nice.”

Asra leans up to whisper in his ear. “Shall we rig a victory, then?” It’s not the sort of thing Julian has practiced sleight of hand for, but Asra promises to take care of everything.

Julian makes a big show of winding up before his first throw, which sails over the cups. “Just getting warmed up,” he says to the crowd, earning some snorts.

His second throw bounces off a cup. As he looses the final ball, his hand tingles. The ball careens into a cup, which goes flying into its neighbor, starting a chain reaction that topples the whole row.

The crowd whoops as the jeweler’s eyes bulge out of their head. With so many witnesses, they can’t get out of passing over the prize. Julian and Asra link hands and disappear into the crowd before anyone can wonder.

* * *

Back at the Shark Tank, they offer the necklace to the innkeepers to pay off Julian’s tab. Camille clasps it around Mira’s neck with an expression full of love. “It doesn’t cover you for tonight,” Camille says without looking at him or managing to sound gruff.

They’ve barely set down their things in their room before Asra has him pinned to the door. Though it’s hard against his back, the lips probing his are pillow-soft, as unhurried as the hands roaming down his sides. Heat builds faster than that inside Julian, a desire for something rougher even as he keeps a gentle hold on Asra’s waist, only following his mouth’s movements. Julian squirms, and Asra pauses to laugh.

“Asra—”

Asra lowers his heels to the ground. “The band’s setting up.”

In his haze, it takes Julian a moment to register instruments being tuned downstairs. His groan earns another laugh.

“C’mon, I want to hear you play some more,” Asra says.

“You could play me instead.”

“As entertaining as your noises are, they’re more likely to get us kicked out than to pay for our room.”

“Point taken.” He lifts Asra’s chin. “A kiss for good luck?”

Asra obliges.


	17. Where Nothing’s Turned to Ash

On an island in the swamp, Asra sits in front of a campfire. It’s small and intimate, but it’s not cozy. The empty space beside him haunts him. He made a mistake, and he can’t remember what, or why. Though the fire dances, he’s cold from what smells like an ocean breeze.

Beetles scuttle out of the shadows, climbing over his feet. The rocks around the base of the campfire turn to bone as it flares up in an inferno, a pillar blocking his view of the swamp beyond. Higher it builds, higher, higher. As he turns to run, a vine trips him. Ashes fill his mouth.

He’s still trying to spit them out as he jolts awake, tangled in the sheets. His foot brushes a leg. In the dark, he tries to focus on the stirring form beside him. His hand loops around Ilya’s back, finding a solid place to rest between his shoulder blades.

“Are you all right?” Asra whispers. “Did, did you go anywhere?”

“No. Promised I wouldn’t leave you,” Ilya says groggily.

“While you slept, though? No strange dreams?”

“Oh, always. Just now, I was on my old pirate ship, going to meet with my captain, when I saw I wasn’t wearing any—Asra?”

Realizing how tightly he’s clinging, Asra loosens his grip. “It must have just been a dream, then.”

“Well, yes, of course I’m not really—wait, did you mean you?” Ilya’s grogginess seems to dissipate as he jerks his head up, propping onto his elbow. “Are you okay? Did you have one of those magic, uh, trance dreams?”

“No, just a normal one. I think.” That doesn’t seem to reassure Ilya. Asra sits up and pushes back his bangs, which are matted with sweat. “Can we go for a walk?”

He slips on his coat and scarf, not finding the usual comfort from the draping fabric. Restless, he helps Ilya into his coats and boots, ignoring Ilya’s mumbled complaints. He fumbles with the fastenings. It would be easier to undo them, to lead Ilya back to bed. The walls feel too suffocating.   

Even in the middle of the night, Bazeaux doesn’t sleep. The streets that bustled that morning are emptier, but Asra’s intuition buzzes at the edges, giving the sense of more activity than he can see. When he asks Ilya if there’s a quiet place to think, Ilya leads him to a wall that’s easily scaled, landing them on a rooftop.

They dangle their feet over the edge. Malak circles overhead, keeping watch. Loneliness makes Asra reach out for Faust, who he left sleeping at the Shark Tank. She frets through their connection, and he tells her to go back to sleep.

From this vantage point, there’s a clear view of the water. Asra scans the sky above the islands for stacks of smoke. This isn’t the right harbor, but it’s not far enough. Nor is it  _ close  _ enough—he doesn’t know how anyone in Vesuvia would find him here, if they needed help, let alone how he would get to them in time. It could already be too late.

Too late. His heart strains against his rib cage, reminding him of the deal he once struck. When Carrow fell ill, neither he nor Ilya had any idea. He used to begrudge Ilya that, but mostly he begrudged himself. 

Ilya takes his hand. “Are you okay?”

_ I’m fine, everything’s fine, it’s all in the past, I’m… _

“No, I’m not.” The words scratch against his throat. He swallows, but he can’t take them back and isn’t sure he wants to.

“What’s wrong? How can I help?”

“Give me a second, and then listen?”

“Of course.”

Asra tries to sort through his thoughts. They twist like a snake knotted around itself.

“I survived childhood by making a friend and running off into the woods,” he starts. “Staying in one place, or being alone—it doesn’t feel safe. I can’t...” His free hand gestures at nothing. This wasn’t the place to start.

“You get restless. You run.”

Asra exhales. “Yeah.”

“And then you cling to what you can.”

Aware of his grip around Ilya’s palm, Asra flushes, though Ilya’s tone carries no judgment. “It’s not—it’s not that simple,” Asra says. He waves at his heart. “Most things don’t fit right, you know? Most people.”

Ilya’s thumb presses. Asra wants to lean on him, but he’s afraid of knocking them both over the edge. 

“I should manage better by myself,” Asra says. “That day I wouldn’t wake up, and Faust had to get you? I just got home, and I realized I’d be there alone. And then it didn’t seem worth it. Nothing bad even happened, it’s… It’s pathetic.”

Ilya’s arm reaches around Asra’s stomach, holding him back, and he realizes he’s listing. He scoots away from the edge, pulling Ilya with him.

“Sorry to be so dramatic,” Asra says.

“Like I’m one to judge?”

Asra can’t help but crack a slight smile. “Oh, yes, neither of us have ever been hypocrites.”

“Oh, no, I’m only Hippocratic.” When Asra fails to muster a reaction to that, Ilya clears his throat. “So, uh, I’m no stranger to feeling pathetic, but you can do things I can’t even fathom. You protected a town, fixed an avalanche, and saved a ship. You’re more than capable. And, er, as for being alone, you don’t—you don’t have to be, if you don’t want to. I’m here.”

Asra opens his mouth to thank him and chokes up. “What if you weren’t?” The words wobble. “You died once, Ilya. Just like Carrow.” He laughs humorlessly, more of a watery hiccup. “If that’s a type, it’s an awful one.”

“I worry, too. I want to protect you, and I don’t—I don’t know if I can. Especially when magic is involved.”

“I don’t think it was ever really about magic,” Asra says. “The dreams and everything, I mean. I… I think that’s just me.” His voice breaks. “Someone I loved died alone, and I felt his ashes sift through my fingers. I know he’s alive, I know he’s safe, I know he’s happy—at least, I have to trust that’s all true. And that’s the most important thing, but it still hurts. No matter how far I run, this is going to chase me.”

Finally he lets himself be folded into Ilya’s arms, lets Ilya stroke his hair and murmur pleas not to cry. Though Asra’s eyes sting, he doesn’t, watching outside of himself as the emotions crash over him like waves on a distant shore. Ilya gives broken apologies for not saving Carrow, and Asra squashes that old resentment. They both blame themselves enough.

Whistling carries from the street below. By the time it fades, Asra can breathe.

“I read my fortune before I asked you to leave with me,” he says.

“Oh? A card tell you a trip with a handsome gentleman would work out?”

Asra tries to smile and can’t, tries to frown and can’t do that, either. “Not exactly. It was the Hanged Man.” Ilya tenses against him, and he rubs Ilya’s side. “He thought I was stuck. That I’d made too many sacrifices and didn’t know how to move on. I thought I was getting myself unstuck by leaving, but I’m just running away again.”

“I know the feeling. I keep thinking maybe there’s a place I’ve never touched, where I’ve never failed anyone.”

“Where nothing’s turned to ash?”

Ilya makes a noise in assent. He touches Asra’s cheek, carefully, like he’s holding glass. “I’ll find it with you, if you want.”

Asra leans away from that too-fragile touch to study him. It’s tempting. They could travel the entire world, multiple worlds, now that Asra can guide him. They could seek out adventures, ones even Asra can’t imagine. Discover new wildlife, new pockets where magic and science meld, new ways to tumble to the edge of a cliff and pull each other back.

And what if they don’t catch each other? What if they’re not there to catch their friends? What if the ash sticks to him, tracking footprints everywhere he goes?   

“It’s always going to follow me,” he repeats. It’s not so wobbly now, a statement of resignation. “And it’s about more than just us.”

“Of course.” Ilya’s hand hovers uncertainly. Cats yowl at each other in the alleyway. “So, what do we do now?”

“I hate to suggest this, but I think we need to go home. No, not just home. There. The Lazaret.”

Ilya shudders. “The Lazaret? Can’t we go anywhere else?”

“That’s how I feel, too, but no. Not without carrying this. At least, that’s true for me. I won’t make you come with me. I know you hate that place as much as I do, and I know we’ve been having a fun trip. At least, I hope it’s been fun for you, too.”

Ilya squeezes him. “Wouldn’t trade it for the world. But I chose to follow you. I’ll follow you anywhere, even there, if you need me to.”

It’s tempting to say he doesn’t, he can take care of himself, and Ilya should take care of himself, too. He remembers his dream, sitting alone on the island, smothered by his own mistake.

He buries himself in Ilya again before whispering, “Please.”


	18. Anywhere

As usual, they travel at night. They leave a note thanking Mira and Camille, gather their familiars and belongings, and head out beneath the stars.

Not eager to hop right back on a ship, they take the overland route. It’s slower, but Julian is in no hurry. He mixes medicine for a driver’s family and earns a carriage ride partway. They continue on like that, one deed and mode of travel to the next. They pass forests and lakes that normally Asra would stop to explore, but he’s quiet and rarely swayed, so as always Julian follows.

“Maybe this is a bad idea,” Julian says on the fourth or fifth day; he’s lost track, with how they sleep. “I know a route to a great little village in the mountains, it branches off near here.”

“I won’t make you follow me, but I can’t put this off. It’s just going to get worse.”

“You know I—”

“I know.”

With the island looming in the future, it returns to Julian’s nightmares. It’s always been there, but there are so many other places, battlefields and dungeons and magical swamps. On the island, patients bury each other before disintegrating into ashes. Julian has a desk on the beach, where he’s fervently taking notes, like if he fills a book he can save them. But the empty pages increase, and soot drifts between them.

Asra never describes his dreams, but he always wakes up shaking now, and Julian can only assume they’re getting worse. Getting closer isn’t helping. What if Asra is wrong? If Julian takes him there, and it hurts him…

“I’m doing this whether you go or not,” Asra says, again, when Julian expresses the concern. His tone is flat, his gaze cold with resolve, but the ice quickly breaks in silent plea.

Even if Julian weren’t weak to it, he’s selfish. He can only assume that whatever spell led to all of this will be broken when they return, and he’ll be lucky to cross paths with Asra. Rather than separating now, he’ll take all the time he can get.

Finally, they arrive at Asra’s sanctuary. Asra stops to fuss over his garden, slower and more aimless than he has been so far.

“It’s not wise to travel another day without rest,” he says. “We need to be prepared when we return.”

“I’ll set our things inside, then, shall I?” Julian says with relief. He earns a grateful look. A cool sensation washes over him as he enters; it’s only once he’s inside that he remembers the barrier Asra had put back up last time they left.

Before Julian can make another mess of the kitchen, Asra enters and puts a pot on the stove. Julian tries to settle into the cozy space, instead pacing and whistling. He even takes out his playwright notes, though the blank pages remind him too much of his nightmares.

They sit at the edge of the bed to eat. Normally, Asra’s food would soothe Julian. Here, at the end of their trip, he sees Asra eating in his sanctuary, shafts of light framing his back and casting a halo around his hair, and _wants_. He wants this to be routine, maybe a break from a morning’s work in town, where he can stroke Asra’s back and plan a moonlit walk in the desert.

He can’t make that happen by taking Asra’s hand, so instead he licks the sauce from it with careful, silent pleading. Asra drops it, making Julian’s heart freeze at his mistake—until Asra slides his fingers through the sauce and lifts them to the dip of Julian’s lips, restarting his heart at a gallop.

Julian takes without hesitation. Dark, lidded eyes and an airy moan signal Asra’s approval before he swings into Julian’s lap, replacing his fingers with his mouth. The open hunger on his face would make Julian breathless if he were stopping to breathe. He clasps Asra’s hips to steady them both, but it’s a lost cause when a hand slips beneath his shirt, and he falls back onto the bed.

* * *

_You’re so good_ , Asra says in a dozen different ways, against different stretches of skin. _So good to me_.

Julian melts.


	19. We All Fall Down

No matter how far Asra wanders, stepping inside Vesuvia’s walls always feels like coming home. It doesn’t lower his guard, but it’s the final stretch before he can return to the shop. This time, there’s still one more stop, and it makes his feet leaden. Only Ilya’s antsy pace urges him onward.

The docks looked longer as a child, a whole expanse to run around on. Asra wishes he still had his safe space beneath them to hide in, not that that would fit him either.

“We’re sure about this?” Ilya asks.

“We didn’t come all the way back for nothing.”

Still, if not for Ilya beside him, Asra would have talked himself out of it. Even in the dark, the shadowy shape on the horizon makes his blood run cold. Faust squeezes his shoulders, sending waves of dread through him.

_Bad island._

She’s right. Maybe this really is a mistake. They were having fun, and Asra ruined it by dragging Ilya back here, moping all the while. It’s more like something Ilya would do, or once would have done. It’s natural to have nightmares after a plague; they’re probably just dreams.

He’s a magician. Dreams aren’t just dreams.

He moves to let down Faust. “Stay here, all right? I’ll be back soon.” She squeezes again. “We’ll go home after this, I promise.”

The moment she gets down, Malak lands on Asra’s shoulder and starts preening him in her place. He cracks a weak smile. “Are you going to keep Faust company?”

_Not safe_.

Malak’s shriek grates in his mind, and he wonders if this is how Ilya’s thoughts sound. He gives Malak a gentle scritch.

“Safer on land, that’s for sure,” Ilya says. His sneer is an obvious cover. “But, er, you’d better guard her anyway.” He looks between Malak and Asra, as if to say, _my raven did just talk, right?_ After tugging a little too hard on one of Asra’s curls, Malak hops down next to Faust.

Knowing nobody would take them to the island, they approach a gondolier about borrowing a boat. The gondolier sputters when, instead of taking their lantern, Asra summons orbs of light to guide the way. It’s the last thing he consciously decides. He lets Ilya get into the boat first with their luggage and help him down, lets his oar push against the water, lets the island grow in his view until Ilya’s back can’t hide it.

When they arrive, the lights blink out, making Ilya exclaim. Summoning them again brings Asra back to himself. Immediately, the dread that’s been knotting inside him threatens to choke him. He takes several breaths before leaving the boat.

His first step on shore stirs up ashes. He freezes, afraid to even drop his back heel to the ground. Then he senses Ilya’s tension and takes another step. Anything to get away from this beach.

Even Ilya is silent. Though Asra couldn’t attend to his chatter right now, it amplifies the wind moaning in the trees and the crunching underneath their toes. He tries not to think about how many bodies are buried beneath them, not to mention the remains they’re walking through.

The ground only gets more thickly coated as they approach the furnaces. Asra almost expects them to come to life, but the only light comes from his orbs. No fire, no smoke.

He stands in front of them for a long time, trying to imagine what it was like for Carrow in those last moments, surrounded and yet alone. His eyes sting from watering, like smoke has caught in them. Not yet, not yet.

He turns to leave. Several steps later, he feels the absence at his side and seizes up. Ilya is frozen in place, haunted. Asra takes his hand carefully, or at least he means to be careful, not tight and desperate. Looking startled, Ilya clings back, but he doesn’t move until he reaches up to pull the patch away from his eye. The red sclera shines.

Asra goes slack for a long moment before panic drives him to step in front of Ilya. He strokes Ilya’s cheek, rubbing his thumb below the red eye until he draws Ilya’s attention down to him.

“Stay with me,” Asra whispers. Ilya nods slowly.

“I promised.” His fingers hover, like he means to touch Asra’s face in return. Afraid of stalling, of breaking down too soon, Asra tugs him along instead.

Asra weaves through the trees, watching spirits waver at the corners of his vision. Again he becomes little more connected to his body than they are. Even so, he knows which beach his feet are carrying him to. The trip is shorter than he’d like. The island isn’t that large; it’s no wonder they ran out of room.

He arrives at the spot. His mind is numb, his heart as empty as he once thought he’d made it. He’s still watching that core of pain from outside until he _isn’t_ , until he returns to find his body leaden, sinking down to the ground.

His knees hit the sand, the ash. His stomach threatens to heave as he digs through them. Tears finally spill, streaking down his cheeks, wetting the handfuls that sift through his fingers.

Arms link around his shoulders. A body presses against his back, and a cheek rests on his head, surrounding him. Ilya’s repeated words blend with his thoughts. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry_.

Asra cries until he’s dry, until he’s empty. He doesn’t feel better, but the next wave of numbness is more grounded. There’s nothing except grit against his skin, no magical tingle of recollection. He doesn’t know who they were; probably a dozen people, mixed together. The remains he once dug through were likely blown into the sea.

He stands and brushes off his knees.

“Come on,” he says. “There’s nothing for us here.”

* * *

They’re still quiet when they return to the mainland, in contrast to Malak’s squawks. Faust squeezes Asra. _Home?_

“Yes. I’m sorry to worry you.” He kisses the top of her head. Ilya coughs.

“So, I, I guess I’ll see you around?”

“You guess…? Oh. Yeah.” Asra stares at him for a second before shaking himself. “Wait. If you want, I mean, would you mind walking me home?”

“Would I…? Of course! That is, of course I wouldn’t mind.”

The flooded district meets them somberly. At night, the workers Nadia employed to fix the damage have gone home, leaving only people sleeping in the streets.  

Ilya rubs his arms. “Chilly night,” he murmurs. It’s the only thing he says before they arrive at the shop. The sight of it pulls at Asra, like in a moment he’ll finally be able to breathe, until he’s on the steps with Ilya standing below, face-to-face.

“Thanks,” Asra says. The word flops, not getting across the weight of all it means.

Ilya gives him a long look before kissing his cheek. “Take care.”

Asra’s hand stays frozen on the doorknob while Ilya leans back, takes another long look, and turns away. Maybe it’s all the crying, or maybe it’s something else, but Asra’s throat is too dry to speak.

_Stay_.

At Faust’s voice, Ilya turns back, looking like he’s not sure she spoke. Asra swallows.

“Do you want to come in?”


	20. For Him

Julian wakes to the smell of cumin and spices he’s too sleepy to identify. He shifts on plush pillows and blinks in confusion at his surroundings—a little potted cactus, a painting of a multi-colored serpent, a bookshelf stuffed with knickknacks—until he sees Asra by the stove, framed by sunlight. Catching sight of him, Asra smiles so brightly that Julian looks over his shoulder to find the cause of it.

“Morning,” Asra says. “Breakfast’ll be done soon.”

Julian sits on the edge of the bed, trying to process everything before Asra presents him with a cup of tea and a plate piled high with rice and lentils. “I’ll stock up on fresh stuff later,” Asra says. “Sorry I don’t have any coffee, either.”

“No wonder I’m not buzzing,” Julian mumbles. He scoops up a bite of food and almost melts at how warm and comforting it is. It’s like the feeling he gets when Pasha makes one of their old family recipes, despite the lack of nostalgia. “Ooh, but this is good.”

A few bites later, he realizes that Asra is beaming softly at him again, the plate in his own lap untouched. The warmth in Julian’s chest hurts, like the sun is blazing where his heart should be. He starts to remember the things he should be worrying about.

“How are you feeling? Any nightmares?” Julian asks. He should have been there to check sooner; he shouldn’t have slept in.

“No. I feel great, actually.” Asra’s smile falters. “Are you all right?”

Julian must look as messy and dazed as he feels. “Right as rain.” Between mouthfuls, he rattles off a list to ground himself. “I need to check on my recent patients. And visit my sister. And see what’s going on at the theater.” He groans. “I still haven’t gotten anywhere with that script.”

“I’ll help you with it, if you want. We could act out some scenes, maybe try your magic show idea.”

It suddenly becomes hard to swallow. “You don’t have to do that.”

“It was just a thought.” Asra begins to pick at his food. It hurts to have subdued him when he seemed so happy, but Julian doesn’t understand why he was, or why he’s offering to help with Julian’s projects, or why he wants Julian on his bed, eating too much good food. They were together during their travels, sure—Julian makes a decent traveling companion—but he accepted that it was all a dream, meant to end Asra’s nightmares.

“What are you going to do now?” Julian asks.

“Get the shop ready to open, I guess. I should check on everyone—we got those presents to give out.”

Right. The gifts for Nadia and Mazelinka were joint efforts. That’s something else for them to do together.

Prolonging this only deepens the war in Julian’s ribcage. The cat he bought Pasha reminds him of his raven figurine, which makes him picture going home to drink, avoiding his cold bed. Before he can stop himself, he grabs Asra’s hand. Asra only returns the hold, his head tilting in silent question.

“Asra, I…“ Julian swallows. “I don’t mean to be selfish, lord knows I was selfish with you in the past, and I—I’m sorry about that, by the way, I said it before but I really—”

“Ilya.” Asra squeezes his hand. “What’s on your mind?”

“What use am I to you? What do you still want from me? Any answer is fine, I just, I don’t—I don’t _know_.”

“You don’t know?” Asra looks stunned and hurt, and Julian could kick himself, even though he has no idea what he did.

“I’m sorry. This clearly wasn’t a good topic.”

“No, this is important. I just thought you already…” The helpless way he trails off makes Julian want to fill in the blanks, but he’s too lost.

“If it’s important, you’ll have to catch me up. Er, but it’s early—should I pour some more tea?”

“The swamp in my gate,” Asra says. “We felt each other. Remember?”

Julian didn’t think it was possible for his heart to thump faster. “Yes.”

“And after I rescued you from those people? And our date at the market? And the night at my other place?”

That memory makes heat rush through Julian. It has a similar effect on Asra, if the way he scans Julian before catching himself is any indication.

“And the little things?” Asra whispers. “Sharing jokes, stargazing on the ship, playing music while I danced?”

“I liked those things.” It’s funny how little time it took for him to shove it all back in his memory, but he never could forget forever, when Asra is involved. “I get what you’re trying to say. It’s just hard to accept. I’ve wanted…”

Asra rubs his hand with a thumb. “What is it you want?”

“You.” The answer comes without hesitation, but the follow-up is shaky. “You know I’ve wanted—I’ve _loved_ you for so long. I asked for too much from you, before, and I’ve been trying… Trying not to. Not that I’ve succeeded.”

“You don’t have to.” Asra’s ring presses against Julian’s skin as he brings Julian’s knuckles to his lips. “I know things were different before, but I want to give you what you want now, if I can.”

It sounds too good to be true. “Can you?”

“I hope so. I’m happy to know your feelings. And I want to share mine, I just…” Asra’s eyes fill with pain. He rests his head against Julian’s fingers. “The last time I told someone I cared for him, he went catatonic.”

“Catatonic?” That is _not_ the hang-up Julian expected.

“It isn’t really my place to tell this story. Though I guess he still doesn’t remember that part.” Asra sighs, turning into the palm Julian cups against his cheek. “The years after Carrow woke up were tough. But it was much worse for him than for me.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

“Don’t get me wrong. It isn’t that I’m not over him. I’m not over what happened to him, the things I did. Or at least, I wasn’t.”

Julian is prepared to tell him it would be fine if he still had feelings for Carrow, but the rest gives him pause. “Wasn’t?”

“Just telling myself it was all over didn’t work. I had to see it for myself. As much as I hated being at the Lazaret, it was nothing like I remembered. It was so small and empty. Dead.”

“I think I know what you mean. All this time, I imagined bodies were still piling up. I kept waiting my turn.”

Asra rubs up and down Julian’s arm. “It’s not coming back. We stopped it. Can’t it be our turn to be happy?”

“I don’t know.” That’s why he still can’t wrap his head around _our_ , why his chest has been tight all morning. “So many people never got that chance, because I couldn’t save them.”

“Nobody can save everyone, Ilya. And you’ve helped plenty of people. Healed them, made them laugh. You care about everyone you meet. That’s what I love about you.”

He searches Julian’s face with an anxious gaze. For a long moment, Julian is too stricken to react. Then he remembers Asra’s last experience and brushes back Asra’s hair, exposing a forehead he can’t resist kissing. He leaves a trail down Asra’s nose to his lips. Whatever he was going to say is swallowed as Asra pulls him close.

They press their foreheads together to breathe. “Thank you,” Asra says. “For going with me, and for bringing me home.”

“You know I’d—”

“Yes,” Asra says. “I know.”

As the reality begins to catch up to Julian, he pulls back to examine Asra. “You mean it?” he whispers.

“I do. Life’s always an adventure with you.”

Asra’s beam returns, and this time, Julian knows it’s for him.


	21. Epilogue – The Magic of Theater

Yawning, Asra burrows into the empty pillow beside his, his hand curling against the air. It goes lax and settles. Though it’s a treat when Ilya is there to spoil him first thing, he no longer worries when he’s not; they’re both flighty, but Ilya won’t go far.

_Just as well_ , Asra thinks as he stretches, _if I’m actually getting out of bed_. Begrudgingly, he gets up to search for pants. Most of a loaf of pumpkin bread sits on the counter alongside a messy note:

~~_Going for breakfast_ ~~

_Opening the shop_

_Love you_

_\- J_

_Helping!_

_\- ^_

Asra recognizes Faust’s signature, an ink print from her tail, beside Ilya’s second note. Voices carry up the stairs when he pads over.

“Take this in your tea for joint pain,” Ilya is saying, “and add this for luck.” After Asra hears the door shut, he heads down.

“Asra!” Ilya turns with a beam, like anybody else could have come from upstairs. Asra gives him a sleepy kiss and surveys the shop without finding any sign of disaster. Ilya hasn’t even turned himself purple.

“Nothing on fire,” Ilya says, wrapping an arm around him. “Faust has been reminding me of magical properties. Did you know some of my patients come here?”

_Helping!_

“Yeah, I saw your note. Thanks,” Asra says, picking up Faust. He nuzzles into Ilya’s shoulder. “And thank you, Ilya.”

Ilya tells him his parents invited them for tea, and a few customers want tarot readings, and he found some things of Carrow’s to pass along. There’s a pang at the thought of losing more traces of him, but they won’t be far. Asra rests against Ilya and half-listens to his stories of the morning, his other half blankly content, until they get another customer.

* * *

Despite running the shop, Asra spends enough time at Ilya’s place to keep it stocked with actual food. As often as not, Ilya sits at his desk, working on his script with a raven quill Asra gave him. Receiving the gift didn’t seem to take him aback too much, which Asra saw as a victory. Just having him there, even doing his own work, seems to help Ilya stay focused—when Asra isn’t purposefully distracting him, of course.

He’s holding back from that now, even though the floor isn’t as comfortable as Ilya’s lap. It’s keeping Ilya at his desk; if he stopped writing to pace, he’d step in Asra’s paints. Asra is fussing over a painting for his parents’ new home, which they’ve been filling from scratch. He’s already scrapped concepts for a basilisk and a seaside landscape.

Sometimes Ilya acts out a bit he’s struggling with, or asks Asra if a magical effect would work. Now that he’s grown used to Ilya’s interest in magic—or at least, in his—the collaboration excites Asra. He can’t help but think about his parents’ work, like all of their progress cleaning the city’s water, or how they combine their specializations into new spells. As a child, he pored over the book they made him, sounding out his mom’s words and tracing his dad’s pictures. He never thought about how they might have felt making it together.

Ilya’s humming reaches him, the tune of a sea shanty he’s belted out before. Asra smiles and begins to sketch out a pair of intertwined snakes.

* * *

The first weeks after their trip to the Lazaret weren’t so peaceful. Like he’d unearthed a geyser, Asra cried that next night, and the next. When it wasn’t the plague, something else came up. Ilya, of course, blamed himself, leading to a fight when he tried to spend the night alone.  

But it wasn’t just tears. Asra’s passions in bed rivaled Ilya’s. His fits of laughter during the day left him clutching the counter, even at Ilya’s cheesiest puns. Portia’s cat purred in his lap and his heart almost burst. The intensity of it, like the world invented new colors after Asra’s years with half a heart, exhilarated and exhausted him.

“It’s natural, when you uncover something you’ve locked away,” his mom said over tea. “You wouldn’t believe what your father and I’s first nights back in Vesuvia were like. Everything will even out in time.”

It has, as he and Ilya have fallen into a routine, splitting their time between the shop, house calls Asra helps with, and the play; evenings with friends and date nights; playful wrestling and whispered promises.

Steadily, the world turns.

* * *

Months pass. Ilya doesn’t try to distance himself from Asra again, or even apologize as often. His spare energy goes into the play as he finishes and restarts drafts, tearing out his hair. He holds long meetings with the community theater until they hold auditions, and Asra helps with set design in between giving him massages. Rehearsals end with nights at the tavern.

Despite quiet moments slow dancing in the shop, a whirlwind of lost weeks heralds the play’s opening performance. Ilya keeps peeking out the curtains, looking more frazzled each time he resurfaces. He reports Nadia in disguise, seated between Portia and Mazelinka; Carrow sitting alone, until Asra sends Faust to watch with him; and even Nazali, sitting calmly like they come here every week.

The last time Ilya closes the curtains, he’s paler than usual. “Your parents are out there.”

“They are?” Asra’s face heats. At first, he was just supporting Ilya. Somewhere between late nights at Ilya’s place and helping with sets and costumes, the project became _theirs_ , a warm feeling until this moment. He kept his tricks simple to avoid wrecking the theater, and any real magician won’t be impressed.

“I don’t know what they’ll think of the second act,” Ilya says, wringing the edge of the curtain. “Oh, I knew I should have changed it.”

In the claustrophobic space between props and stagehands, Asra begins to pace. Doing street performance wasn’t like this. People never _showed up_ for him. But when he thinks about Ilya’s friends and family, it seems simpler. He adjusts the ponytail of Ilya’s wig with a smile.

“They’re here to support us, not add pressure. Let’s give them a fun time,” Asra says.

Ilya’s grin is weak. “I hope your parents like pirates.” Dressed as a rogue medic in his vest and bandana, he cuts a dashing enough figure that Asra can’t be too worried.

“Breathe from your belly, remember? I’ll count with you.” Though Ilya never took to meditation, Asra manages to lead him in a few calming breaths before the lights dim. He pecks Ilya carefully on the lips to avoid smudging his makeup. “Break a leg, my love.”

“A peg leg, wish I’d thought of that sooner,” Ilya mutters, before striding out on stage.

Asra twists some of the many rings Malak and Ilya have given him, all worn tight together for luck. From his position just off-stage, he listens to Ilya’s opening remarks for his first cue.

“You might notice this performance feels more real than any other,” Ilya says. Asra imagines the scent of salt until it perfumes the air, filling the theater by the end of Ilya’s speech. “That’s just the magic of theater. Keep your wits and limbs about you as you experience these true events on the high seas.”

As the curtain rises, Malak provides squawks meant to imitate a seagull. The stage is decorated like a ship deck, with a flagpole bearing a pirate’s banner in one corner. Asra sends a breeze to make it flap throughout the opening scene, which introduces the ship medic’s dilemma as a new, hostage crew member. The audience laughs at his hijinks until he gives his captain a checkup, discovering an illness the captain decides to hide.

From there, a rival pirate captain sends a threat to board the ship, and the medic volunteers to fight him. The day of training he’s afforded begins on a light note, with attempts at absurd acrobatic feats leading to exaggerated failures. The stunts bring his heel dangerously close to props not placed where they were supposed to be. Asra manages to blow them out of his path just in time.

As the medic gets more desperate, the other crew members give up on him, and he finds himself alone, questioning if the battle’s outcome matters after all of his mistakes. The mist Asra provides hangs heavy over the stage.

His next effect heralds the dawn of the fight with a bang, a sound evoking a cannonball the enemy ship fires in warning. When the enemy captain boards the ship, the medic has found his bravado again, with a little help from a breeze flapping his cape. The ensuing duel gets a rise out of the audience, as sabers clash, putting the medic at a quick and obvious disadvantage. Each strike pushes the medic toward the rail, until his back is pushed up against it.

With the captain’s final swing, the medic ducks, sending the captain sailing over the railing. His yelp culminates in Asra’s splash of water. Further splashes suggest him swimming away.

As the audience cheers, the crew joins them in celebration until the medic’s captain appears. The crew lowers the medic off of their shoulders for the captain’s inspection. After a hushed moment, the captain orders everyone to return to their stations, and the medic turns to the audience with a big shrug. The curtain closes on the crew singing sea shanties.

* * *

The audience is still clapping when Ilya nearly bowls Asra over, scooping him up with a whoop. Asra holds on, laughing, while Ilya spins him.

“That was amazing, you were amazing! Come here, love,” Ilya says, pulling him down into a kiss.

“That was mostly you.”

“Don’t be silly, did you hear them gasp at that water? Oh, it’s time for the bow, you should join us.”

Touching back to the ground, Asra feels his gut seize at that idea. He fixes Ilya’s vest. “I don’t want to spoil the illusion. Like you said, it was the magic of theater.”   

Thankfully, Ilya accepts that reasoning. There’s no avoiding their personal audience, who join them backstage after the show, but it’s not as if Asra minds the chance to hug his parents and Carrow. Though the fuss his parents make turns him red, he glows at their pride.

After heckling him, Portia hands Ilya an overflowing bouquet. “My partner helped grow them,” she says, winking at the disguised Nadia.

“I contributed little,” Nadia says, a touch bashful this far out of her element. “You were splendid, Julian. Almost as if you had magic on your side.” She tucks a flower behind Asra’s ear, the gesture appearing absent, and he touches it gratefully.

Ilya invites everyone to join the cast for drinks. Aisha bows out. “We don’t want to intrude. Come for tea, soon, will you both?” 

“Yes, please do. I had some questions for Julian about that serum we were working on,” Salim adds, before Aisha pulls him away with a hushed _not now_.

“Drinks on me, then,” Mazelinka says, “as long as I can get in a good game of cards.”

“I’ll play you for the bill,” Nazali says with a rakish grin that makes Mazelinka roll her eyes.

Carrow tucks away a flower from Nadia for Muriel. “Thank you all, but I should be getting home.”

“Stay for a little while?” Asra finds himself pleading. As happy as he is, after so much support from their loved ones, he’s overwhelmed by the prospect of the Rowdy Raven.

Gently, Carrow squeezes Asra’s elbow. “As long as you need.”

“A little while,” Asra repeats. “Thanks.”

* * *

Despite his misgivings, Asra has a fun time in the glow of the Rowdy Raven. He and Portia convince Nadia to try progressively stranger drinks, ones named for eyeballs and bat wings, though she won’t touch the beetles. Nazali and Mazelinka’s game turns into the best two out of three, and then three out of five. By that point, Carrow has to return to Muriel. “At your next performance, we’ll be in the rafters,” he whispers to Asra on the way out.

Ilya bemoans gaffes in his performance until Asra pulls him away from the rest of the cast to dance. Their bodies meld into one set of fiery movements. They work best together that way, even better than working on a cure or a play, whirling in a storm of limbs across the room and over a table or two.

Reluctantly, they release each other to rejoin the group. Knowing Ilya, he probably would have stayed out all night, if Asra hadn’t been half-dozing against his side. They excuse themselves to take a slow, roundabout path home.

Ilya stops to look out over the harbor. It’s quiet, with no boats or crashing waves. The sight of the Lazaret in the distance still makes Asra go cold. It might always, but he knows when it’s out of sight, it will stay out on the water where it belongs.

“I’ve been thinking about the medic,” Ilya says. “Nobody asked him to duel that captain. He just decided he had to, to be needed.”

Ilya crosses his arms and shifts his weight in the way that means he’s building to a point. Asra waits quietly for him to continue.

“Makes for good drama, but you know—maybe he was wrong, and he didn’t have to do all that. But maybe…” He inhales slowly and drops his arms as he turns to Asra. “Maybe if he was right, then those people weren’t worth impressing. Because people who care don’t make you walk the plank when you’re out of uses.”

Like he’s looking for confirmation, he searches Asra’s gaze. Asra smiles and winds his arms around Ilya’s shoulders.

“That’s exactly right,” he says, before pulling Ilya down for a kiss.


End file.
